


The Deductive Leap.

by Kiki78



Category: Quantum Leap, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brainwashing, Kidnapping, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:12:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 48,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiki78/pseuds/Kiki78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leaping through time, quantum physicist Sam Beckett has never encountered anyone quite like Sherlock Holmes.  While attempting to fill Molly Hooper’s shoes, Sam has a big enough challenge not being called out by Sherlock as an imposter and he’s still not quite sure WHO he's there to help.  Sherlock, or Moriarty. </p><p>As the Great Game is put into action and runs it's course, danger starts to mount higher and higher for all involved except the man with a plan behind the game. Never did Moriarty imagine that fate would drop a fun toy in the form of Sam into his path... and Moriarty never was a man to let such a lovely opportunity like this be wasted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Molly of a Different Color.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: I'm playing a little fast and loose with both the Quantum Leap and BBC Sherlock mythos, I'll try to not abuse too much of either one. Last episode of Quantum Leap, plus any in-show literary references made ABOUT Sherlock Holmes are being ignored. Other than that, I'm trying to be as respectful as possible to both shows and characters involved. 
> 
> Expect random spoilers for both shows.
> 
> I own nothing. All copyrighted characters belong to their respective copyright holders, all of whom are people with loads more money than I have. 
> 
>    
> \--------------------  
>  _Theorizing that one could time travel within his own lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett stepped into the quantum leap accelerator and vanished. He awoke to find himself trapped in the past, facing mirror images that were not his own, and driven by an unknown force to change history for the better. His only guide on his journey is Al, an observer from his own time, who appears in the form of a hologram that only Sam can see and hear. And so, Dr. Beckett finds himself leaping from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong, and hoping each time that his next leap will be the leap home._  
>  \--------------------  
> 

Chapter 1.  
 ** _A Molly of a different color._**

\--------------------

"We're just interested in the feet." The voice behind the casually phrased statement was low and sensuous.

Sam blinked a little uncertainly. It had been a scant few seconds since he'd leapt in, he didn't know who he was, and to be completely honest his vision had only barely just cleared. Then again, this wasn't the first time that Sam had popped into an unusual situation before. Quickly, Sam took in the scene. There were two men who were clearly expecting a response of some sort from him. "The feet?" Sam managed to stammer, still more than a little unsure of himself for the time being. 

Right. Morgue. Two people looking at him, one in professional dress, most likely law enforcement judging from the attitude and the piece tucked under the jacket. Possible murder investigation then. So, what did the other guy want with just the feet? 

"Do you mind if we just take a look at them?" The man repeated himself as as he adjusted the purple scarf around his neck. 

Now Sam took a second look at this guy who only wanted to see the feet--presumably the feet of the two cadavers currently out and tucked into a set of matching body bags. Tall, lean, with dark hair and bright green eyes. The clothes indicated civilian rather than law enforcement, but the way the first man was regarding him, Sam figured this person had to be a consultant of some sort. Having leapt into his fair share of individuals involved in law enforcement, Sam knew how reluctant most cops were to deal with outside intelligence... so, mister 'just the feet' was most likely fairly impressive, just not well liked. 

The closest bag held the body of a man named Lukis. 

\-------------------- 

It wasn't until about an hour later that Al bothered to show up. A niggling feeling told Sam that one of the main factors behind his friend's delay had to do with forensic reports and dead bodies. Even though he was a hologram, Al never did well when there were bodies present. This was a fact that never failed to amuse Sam, or annoy Al. 

By now the previous two visitors were already long gone. The tattoos on the feet of Lukis and VanCoon had piqued Sam's curiosity. Sam gave the bodies another examination, even though he was pretty sure that neither of these men were the reason he was here. 

When Al appeared, Sam hissed through gritted teeth at the hologram only he could see and hear. "Al, it's 2011! How can I be in 2011?" 

"We're working on figuring that one out." Stogie balanced precariously on deft fingers, Al attempted to wave off the question. "So far what we've got is that you're--" 

"Molly Hooper." The work ID around his neck was pointed out. "She works the night shift as a forensic tech at Saint Bartholomew's hospital, colloquially known as Saint Bart's. Lives alone, has a pet cat named Toby." Sam sighed deeply. "Um, Molly has a gentleman caller named Jim, who stopped by a bit ago so we could have some coffee. Oh yeah, and today's date is March 27, 2011." 

"Nice." Impressed, Al nodded in assent. "Someone's definitely done their homework. Not gonna ask how you knew about the cat," the hologram teased. 

Sam sighed deeply, frustration and near-resignation evident in both his face and body language. "So, what does Ziggy say I'm here for..." his voice trailed off, then paused for a moment before continuing, "...and since we're already past my initial leap date, how bad would it be for me to just jump on a plane and head back to the project? When I first woke up in 1956 as Tom Stratton, that was one of Ziggy's suggestions; to wait it out and then head back to the project site in New Mexico." 

Al trailed along behind Sam as his friend went about doing Molly's job and put a few finishing touches on some paperwork before going back to the computer desk. "Well, the what, that's where things get a little difficult. The data that Ziggy had access to, it kind of conflicts...a lot...about the buildup of events in the next couple of days." The hologram stayed on-guard in case Sam made any move towards the large refrigeration units holding the bodies. 

"First off, most of this hoopla revolves around this Sherlock guy. He’s supposed to be smart, and I mean crazy, freakishly smart.” 

“Al.” The warning in Sam’s tone didn’t need to be made any clearer. Seated at Molly’s computer, Sam poked at the mouse. It was a pleasant surprise to find that desktop computers hadn’t really changed all that much in the past decade or so. Systems were naturally quicker, but at least Molly’s computer ran on a somewhat predictable and plausibly friendly GUI interface that Sam felt comfortable using. 

“They say he’s almost as big an egghead as you.” Al paused, and sized up his old friend. “He’s also supposed to be a smug little bastard. I haven’t the foggiest to why a cutie like Molly is so sweet on him.” 

“Al, this is all well and good, but give me something I can use.” 

“Fine. Sometime in the next couple of days, there's going to be a psychopathic serial bomber. This is where the conflicting information comes in.” Al took a puff of his cigar before continuing. “Next year, all the newspapers start to claim that this is all an elaborate set up by this guy named Sherlock. However, Sherlock’s buddy, a Doctor John Watson, and the Detective Inspector Lestrade both stand by Sherlock’s innocence.” With a pause, Al looked over at the computer monitor where his friend had idly opened an internet browser. "Dr. Watson has an online blog." Impatiently the holographic man punched in some information on his handheld unit. "Uhm, in the address bar, type in John Watson blog...hey, would you look at that, that sucker popped right up." 

\-------------------- 

As Al started to fill Sam in on what was known about the events of the next couple of weeks, from the hallway Moriarty listened intently to the side of the conversation he could hear. This was not an entirely unwelcome situation. When he’d checked in on Molly earlier, it was a shock to realise...Molly...wasn’t quite Molly. 

On his visit earlier in the evening, Molly hadn't moved or sounded like herself, yet there were a few moments when there was a flash of the woman's normal demure demeanor. It wasn’t until Moriarty recalled the Lothoman Project from years back that it came together. The Lothoman Project had been based on plans stolen from a classified American project involving time-travel, a project called Quantum Leap The unlucky few individuals to be subjected to this unique form of time-travel were given the rather unassuming ‘Leaper’ moniker. Unfortunately, the Lothoman Project had failed, and badly. Two people had died as a direct result--the two ‘Leapers’, Alia and Zoe. Interestingly enough, the injuries that the two women had sustained appeared to be from a shotgun blast. At the time, no one had cared enough to investigate the circumstances of their deaths any further and had abandoned the project in its entirety. 

All of the hardware, software, data and Lothos computer system associated with the Lothoman Project were now property of one of Moriarty’s dummy corporations. Hidden in the data was the real reason that Lothoman Project went down, the Leaper from Project Quantum Leap; Doctor Sam Beckett, the driving force behind the original project... 

If he was correct, Moriarty mused, and he always was, then it stood to reason that Beckett had taken Molly’s place because something was about to go horribly wrong for one of Molly’s little friends. With the fun game that was planned to take place in only a few days time, it didn’t take a quantum physicist to deduce which friend the good doctor was here to assist. 

Unfortunately, if there was a _Leaper_ , it also meant that there was an _Observer_. A person from further down the timeline that only the Leaper could see and hear. That would explain the odd one-sided conversation that Molly was currently having with thin air. It stood to reason that Beckett was now being informed of current events, and about how he was supposed to be behaving if everyone around was to believe that he _was_ Molly Hooper. 

A broad smile crept across Moriarty’s features. Both individuals that had been subjected to the quantum accelerators had woken in the past with partial amnesia and **required** Observers to tell them about the situations, and in some cases, their original names. Only a little coaxing was then needed to get them to perform the desired mission. Separate the Leaper from the Observer, and Sam Beckett would be a man cut off from the only support network he’d known for potentially the past decade. 

This could be fun.

\--------------------


	2. A Hidden Truth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and John have a polite chat... over a body. Is this the calm before the storm, or is Sam's job not as bad as he thinks it might be? Either way, John might just start to get an idea in his head about Molly.

Chapter 2.  
 ** _A Hidden Truth._ **  
****

The text that arrived that morning to John’s phone was simple and straight to the point. ‘The email codes are deciphered. _Does Sherlock have a stalker?_ ’ After the night that he, Sarah and Sherlock had, John wasn’t entirely sure how to take this message. After the message arrived, an image was sent to the ex-military man. In short order two more were sent. In neat and precise handwriting, each image had the gibberish that Sherlock had been sent, but the solutions were worked out next to them; each solution was eloquently written out to reveal the hidden messages. 

_‘Sherlock I am watching you.’_

_‘Sherlock I am coming to get you.’_

_‘Sherlock I have found you.’_

Surprise tinged on his features, John sat up in his seat. “Sherlock. Someone just messaged me decoded versions of those coded messages you were emailed.” The phone was held up for the consulting detective to take. “I don’t recognize the number, though.” 

Sherlock glided into the room. He didn’t just walk, the man never just _walked_ , he all but floated across the well-trodden floorboards. John was always amazed at how gracefully his friend could move unfettered throughout their slightly cluttered flat. The ethereal effect of Sherlock’s previous movements was utterly decimated moments after the man had collected the phone, and promptly stepped on the coffee table, instead of around, as he made his way towards the sofa. The thin, satiny robe worn over a set of night clothes that had seen more than their fair use fluttered dramatically as Sherlock flopped down on the imitation leather couch. 

Again, John was rather impressed with his friend; there were very few shades of grey with the taller man. At any given moment, Sherlock's often mercurial moods could have him either move like an ethereal creature, or stomp around like a petulant child. Right now, Sherlock seemed to be doing both. Not that John minded; it was always intriguing to watch Sherlock in action regardless of what mood inspired that action...unless it was boredom, which had been known to be dangerous. 

“Interesting.” Intuitive green eyes studied the mobile phone’s screen. “This was sent from Molly’s number, but it isn’t her handwriting.” 

“In the comments section of my blog she mentioned her new friend Jim. Could be his. Either way, those riddles are now solved, and from the sound of it, you’ve managed to get yourself a stalker.” John did his best not to smirk, which in itself required a rather valiant effort on his part, "...Or an admirer.” 

Sherlock gave his associate a flat glare. 

\-------------------- 

The woman had been shot in the head by a high caliber sniper rifle, so why was the DI dead set on labeling this a suicide? Sam had heard of some stupid things in his time, but this took the proverbial cake. A child could tell that this was murder. The man huffed with indignation. Why bother with forensic reports if they were going to be completely ignored and brushed under the rug? 

Word on the grapevine was that the previous night had been rather rough on John and Sherlock. Rougher on John, at least. There had been whispers, primarily originating from Agent Donovan, that Sherlock had been downright gleeful about the attempted homicide upon his person. Donovan had also made a few other disparaging remarks about the Consulting Detective, of which ‘Freak’ was the least insulting of the lot. 

In a weird way, Sam felt he could identify with a lot of the problems that Sherlock had. They were both gifted, and to some extent horribly cursed, with unreasonably high intellects. He was also mildly amused that Sherlock had also deemed a military man competent enough to associate with him on a regular basis. From what Sam had read on John’s blog, the man definitely possessed a quick and agile mind, which was most likely what kept Sherlock close. Sam’s own close friendship with Al was much the same; they complimented each other perfectly. That one simple thought brought a smile to the scientist’s face. 

Sam’s head jerked up when he heard the door open to the morgue. Quickly the man schooled his introspective smile for one a little more appropriate for the current setting. People weren’t ever happy if their _mortician_ was a little too pleased with themselves. “Hm?” His mood brightened visibly when he saw who his visitor was. “Mr. Watson, nice to see you here...” though Sam wasn’t sure why Dr. Watson would be visiting him now, “...and not on one of my tables,” he teased, hoping that the slightly dark humor would be appreciated. 

“How did you know--” John started to ask, but was quickly interrupted by Sam. 

“Your blog. There’s a black and white photo on the main page, and your last post has color photos so people can tell the difference between you and Sherlock.” The body in front of him was zipped up and pushed back into the refrigeration unit. Taking a guess, since John acted as though they didn’t know each other, “I’m Molly Hooper. I’d say I’m a friend of Sherlock’s, but you know how he is.” With that, Sam reached over to shake the other doctor’s hand. “Nice to finally meet you in person.” In a way, it was honestly nice to meet someone and not have to pretend to be an old friend, especially when he had no clue who he was talking to. 

It was a guarded laugh, but the blond did laugh at the ‘friend’ statement as he reached over to shake the offered hand. “Yeah, he’s definitely something else.” There was a moment’s hesitation before John let go of Sam’s hand. “Uhm, nice to meet you too, Molly. Wasn’t that...” 

“The work visa on her states that her family name was Shan, no given name. DI Dimmock is pressuring me to list her cause of death as suicide.” Sam shrugged, then patted the sleek steel drawer that held the body. “Yes, she’s the one that tried to kill you and Sherlock last night. She came in not that long ago. I don’t think that Dimmock wants to _waste_ manpower in finding out how she really died.” He didn’t bother adding ‘brain power’ to the statement. 

John’s brain stalled for a few seconds as the information sank in. “Wait, pressuring to list her as a suicide?” 

“Most suicides either place the gun barrel against their temple, so the bullet will penetrate the sphenoid and become lodged in their brain, or they bite down on the barrel so that the shot goes up through the back of the head. On Ms. Shan, however, the entry wound is through her frontal bone and the bullet removed from the frontal lobe." A few gestures more than illustrated his point, especially with John’s medical and military knowledge to fill in the unspoken gaps. “Now, I don’t know much about firearms,” Sam lied, “but I don’t think that the bullet I pulled out of her head came from a handgun.” 

To emphasize his point, Sam tapped a tray sitting on the portable examination table. On the stainless steel tray was the bullet which had previously before been inside Shan’s head. Due to impact deformation, the spent bullet was about two and a half centimeters in length. 

“That looks like a 7.62 Nato,” John murmured. 

“A what?” Sam didn’t really need any clarification, he knew the bullet type. When he’d leapt into Herbert ‘Magic’ Williams in 1970, the Vietnam Navy Seal had been issued the M21 weapon system. Not that he was a great weapons connoisseur, but the M21 had been an incredible improvement over the old M14 that he had used for hunting when he went with his father and brother back in Elkridge, Indiana. The M14 was probably one of Sam’s least favorite rifles mainly because its original wooden stock had a tendency to warp and it jammed more often than not. 

In a year’s time from now, John Watson and Gregory Lestrade would be the only two to remain convinced of Sherlock’s innocence. The way the newspapers had been slanted, it was hard for Ziggy to make accurate predictions in this case about exactly who Sam was here to help out. Unfortunately, if he was here to help Sherlock, and Sherlock was as smart as Al had led on about, then the last thing that Sam wanted to do was get in the consulting detective’s line of sight. For Sherlock to realize there was something very different about Molly would open up a whole new can of worms, since having Sherlock fingering Molly as being an imposter could potentially throw doubt on anything the man may deduce later. That posed a problem, since he wanted to make sure himself of the detective’s brilliance and innocence. 

Sam figured that the safest way to find out about Sherlock was to engage John. 

Right now, what Sam needed a better handle on John’s personality. Reading an online blog was one thing, interacting one on one was another entirely. 

“Oh, ah,” the blond stammered. “It’s a bullet from a rifle.” 

\-------------------- 

After spending nearly an hour together with Molly that day, John had made plans with her later that evening for dinner. It had been cute to see the woman become flustered and blush over the invitation. She had tried to worm her way out of going, but stubbornly, John had insisted. 

For the life of him, John couldn’t understand why Sherlock was overlooking someone as genuinely nice, and funny as Molly. She seemed like the type of person to properly compliment the detective instead of him, the blond thought sullenly to himself. He studied his reflection in the full-length mirror that adorned the back of the door to his room and tried to puzzle out some reason to explain why Sherlock kept dragging him along on this insane yet wondrous path they were apparently on. 

From the conversation he'd had with her, Molly seemed like she could keep pace with Sherlock on an intellectual level. That was something John felt like he was continually failing at. It was almost as though he was constantly attempting to play catch-up with some of Sherlock's more obscure feats of mental acrobatics and minute observations. 

John sighed deeply, and decided that it was about time to head out. Since there weren't going to be any life threatening situations, he highly doubted that Sherlock would tag along. Not that this was a date. Certainly not that. Besides, the only reason Molly had ultimately agreed was when he’d suggested that she bring her boyfriend, Jim, to prove that it wasn’t a date. Sherlock was convinced that there was no way Molly could have puzzled out those bizarre messages, so John was more than a little curious about the man that HAD gotten the answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good friend asked me why Molly Hooper was selected to be the Leapee and not someone closer to Sherlock, like John or Mrs. Hudson. The answer is really simple, Molly is potentially the only one that will keep in (more or less) the loop with Sherlock and NOT get badly maimed in the process... BY Sherlock.
> 
>    
>  __  
>  **With Mrs. Hudson as the Leapee:**  
>  Sherlock is too observant for Sam to get away pretending to be Mrs. Hudson. All it would take is for Sam to NOT say _'I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper'_ , and then go quietly do whatever Sherlock had requested. Sherlock would then go after Sam in order to find out what had happened to the _REAL_ Mrs. Hudson, and get mad when Sam lies through his teeth. I don't think that Sherlock has issues with striking a lady, so a physical confrontation is highly possible. The only real question is, if Sam would fight back when physically confronted by Sherlock. If Al is around, then he won't, since Al would _actively_ be telling Sam to not fight back. Without Al present, then Sam would most likely defend himself against Sherlock.
> 
> From John's point of view... Sherlock has completely lost his marbles, and is now attacking their frail and elderly landlady while claiming that she's an imposter that looks and sounds _exactly_ like Mrs. Hudson. Nothing good can come from this, and it would drive one heck of a wedge between John and Sherlock.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> **With John Watson as the Leapee:**  
>   
> 
> Depending on what point they are at in their relationship when Sam leaps in is the determining factor to how fast Sherlock will notice (seconds or minutes)... and how badly he'll try to hurt Sam. Sherlock could tell in a glance that John was ex-military, and he'd be able to tell just as fast that Sam (pretending to be John) isn't. 
> 
> _A Study in Pink_ is probably the safest time frame for Sam to have leapt into John, anything after that is just begging for broken bones.


	3. This is why we can’t have nice things.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock has an interesting conversation, it's not always a pleasant experience for the person he's interacting with. At least that's Sam's opinion on the matter.

Chapter 3.

_**This is why we can’t have nice things.**_

From the moment Molly walked into the restaurant Sherlock knew there was something _off_ about her. Subtle differences. Little things that when looked at individually could easily have been explained away. Molly's hairstyle had changed, for the better. While she normally didn't care for makeup, Sherlock had often suspected that the reason was that Molly honestly didn't know how to use it. Now the hint of makeup that she did have on looked professionally applied. Somehow, Sherlock doubted that Molly would have paid someone to make her _pretty_ for something as paltry as a date with John. 

Intense green eyes scrutinised Molly further. Even her gait had changed. There was a measured confidence and languid grace to Molly's movements that Sherlock had only previously seen in experienced martial artists. 

Sherlock watched as the person impersonating Molly made her way to the table where he and John were seated. He gave her a warm smile that would have made the real Molly swoon. “Molly, so nice to see you.” 

“Likewise,” Molly smiled back, cautiously reflecting the genius’s warmth. 

Nervousness hiding in the back of the woman’s eyes was clear as daylight for Sherlock to read. Sherlock’s smile broadened. Now THIS had the potential to be a fun little mystery. Why would someone bother to impersonate Molly? This _Molly_ wasn’t acting threatening nor antagonistic in any way shape or form, which hopefully meant that _his_ Molly wasn’t harmed. There was only uncertainty behind this woman. 

“John.” The woman’s entire demeanor relaxed slightly when her attention was on the doctor. “Jim said that he’d be a little late.” 

_That_ was intriguing. So John wasn’t considered a threat? Sherlock continued watching the woman, wondering if he should take her direct apprehension as a compliment. He had to admit, this imposter was good. Every physical detail was perfection. The voice and accent were flawless. 

“You’ve changed your eye makeup.” There was just one glaring mistake. “Makes your eyes...greener than normal.” 

\-------------------- 

Sam didn’t like how Sherlock was watching him. It reminded him all too much of a hungry coyote stalking the hen house, and guess who was the rooster that had gotten his feathered tail locked outside? He _really_ wished that he were just about anywhere but here. 

Great, just great, Sherlock could see his eyes. “Hazel, actually.” Sam sat down at the table across from the consulting detective. “As you know, different colors around hazel eyes can make them look either brown or green. And the new makeup--I saw a tutorial on youtube and decided to try it out.” 

“I think she looks nice.” John chimed in. 

“Thank you.” Sam picked up the menu and began browsing. “I didn’t realize Sherlock would be coming tonight.” 

“I didn’t know either. He sort of tagged along...again,” John mumbled. 

That got a snicker from the time traveler. “Do that to you often?” 

“Only all the bloody time! I can barely go on a proper date without turning around to find that Sherlock has just gotten into a fight with a chinese acrobat. Can you imagine how difficult it is to keep a romantic relationship with him doing that?” John scowled. “It’s nothing short of a miracle that Sarah decided to give me a second chance after that first disastrous date.” 

“Oh!” Of course _now_ was when Al finally decided to pop in. “...That Sarah would be Sarah Sawyer, she’s a doctor at the office where John’s currently employed. Because of Sherlock interfering with his life, John eventually gets fired and ends up as Sherlock’s full time wrangler. Sarah won’t be the first or last chick that Sherlock chases off...” The hologram waved his stogie in John’s direction. “The newspapers, when they start writing about these two, keep referring to this guy as _Confirmed Bachelor_ John Watson. Though Tina is under the impression that Sherlock and John here are guilty of several games of _flippy-flop_ with each other.” 

“Quit complaining. It was the best date ever.” Sherlock snapped. 

“Well...” Sam put the menu down, and actively tried to not react to Al’s presence. If Sherlock was as perceptive as he believed the man was, then even having Al there feeding him information, or misinformation as the case might be, could possibly tip the guy off. “John, have you thought about _why_ Sherlock does stuff like that? I mean, he’s a brilliant guy...actually...Sherlock is actually pretty scarily smart.” 

“That’s good, Sam, play up the guy’s ego.” Like an annoyed cat, Al slunk behind where Sherlock was seated and gave the dark-haired Brit the stink-eye. 

“Scarily smart.” The detective’s lip curled up into an amused smirk. “You mean to say that I frighten people with my intellect?” 

“I’d say so.” John agreed with Molly’s sentiments. 

"Definitely. I'm supposed to be your friend... Ah--acquaintance," Sam quickly corrected himself, when Al shouted at him over the _mistake_. "Because we both know that Sherlock doesn't do the _friend_ thing, but I can assure you that your intellect is making me nervous.” He didn’t feel the need to add that he was uncomfortable for entirely different reasons. Molly’s heels probably weren’t helping the situation any. Mentally, Sam thanked his lucky stars that Molly didn’t wear stilettos. 

Before anyone could get a word in, Sam continued speaking with an amused smile. “However, John is different. He basically rolls with the punches, so to speak, and reacts to Sherlock for all intents and purposes as a normal person. A somewhat frustrating person, but..yeah.” 

“That,” John stuttered, “that, is the most inane thing I’ve ever heard!” 

“Not really. Sherlock might have heard of them, but, Beckett and Calavicci functioned kinda the same way you two are going.” Behind him, Sam heard Al comment something along the lines of not liking where this conversation was going. “If I’m remembering right, the most popular rumor is that they met at the start of a privately funded project when Beckett walked in on a drunk Calavicci beating up a vending machine. Calavicci then barked a few orders at Beckett, who he thought was a normal intern. It wasn’t until a week later that someone told Calavicci that he was using one of the project heads, Beckett, as a gopher. Beckett apparently went along with it, because that was the first time that someone was relating to him as a normal person.” 

“Yeah,” Al harumphed, “you thought it was hilarious. How the heck was I supposed to know that some little kid choir boy was in charge. I’d be surprised if you were even shaving by then.” 

“In all fairness, Beckett was supposed to have been early twenties when this happened. So he probably looked like any other intern at the time.” 

“With a baby face. God, I can’t believe you kept gettin’ carded well into your thirties. You’re lucky that you don’t remember how embarrassing it was that you had to show ID every time I tried hauling your ass into a bar.” 

“Wait,” a confused look crossed John’s face, “who exactly is this Beckett bloke?” 

It was Sherlock’s turn to chime in. He was still watching Sam like a hawk. “Doctor Samuel Beckett. Officially, he’s only missing. Considering that he’s been missing for the past decade, it can be safe to say that either he doesn’t want to be found or he’s dead; personally I’d be inclined to believe the latter. Before Dr. Beckett disappeared, he held seven doctorates, authored several books, some of which are in my own collection, and even played at Carnegie Hall. It was the piano. Beckett is primarily _remembered_ for his advancements in quantum physics.” 

“Alright, then what about Calavicci?” John was visibly impressed with the information that Sherlock had dumped on them about this Doctor Sam Beckett. 

“Admiral Albert Calavicci,” Sherlock stated. “Once you know who Doctor Samuel Beckett is, Rear Admiral Albert Calavicci isn’t too difficult to find out about. Highly decorated military career, Vietnam veteran...he’s one of the soldiers in that photo, the famous one.” 

Sam swallowed hard. He knew exactly which photo it was, and it was his fault that the photographer died. “Yeah, didn’t that photo get the Pulitzer?” 

“Who cares. Unfortunately, the Admiral has also disappeared into uninteresting and disappointing mediocrity. Considering the rumours of the Admiral’s promiscuity, it’s also completely plausible that he’s wasting away in some hospital with a venereal disease.” 

Punching Sherlock was a very real option on the table right now. Something told Sam that while it might be extremely satisfying, as Al was so loudly suggesting, to _‘Pop tha’ bum right on the chin’_...that it definitely would cause more problems than he was ready or willing to deal with. Sam honestly did wish that Al would stop putting his hand through Sherlock’s head and egging him on to _‘hit right here’_. Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath to re-center himself before speaking again. “That Pulitzer was awarded posthumously. So I’d reckon that Maggie Dawson’s family would have cared a great deal, since she died for that photo. The Navy Seals from the unit that Miss Dawson was reporting on would have cared. If they hadn’t, they would never have safely transported her gear out of hell. I’d reckon that plenty of people cared.” Sam glared at the detective. “I also reckon that there must be something really off about me tonight, since I’d swear that Sherlock is being even more ornery than usual…but then again, how would I know. Sherlock only ever acknowledges my existence when he wants something.” 

He was so close to home that it hurt. All he needed to do was finish this last leap, and Al, Gooshie, and Beeks...they could finally bring him back. Molly was out of the waiting room, forcefully breaking the circuit that Sam needed to complete a leap. Save Sherlock, and go home, it was finally as simple as that. All he had to do was save the life of the person that he wanted so desperately to punch right now. 

Sam folded the menu and put it down before standing up and accidentally startling the waitress that had finally returned to their table to take an order. “Sorry, miss,” he quickly apologized, before turning back to a fascinated Sherlock and dumbfounded John. “John, sorry about running out, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to willing to play nicely tonight, and something tells me that he’ll keep searching for buttons to push if I stay.” 

"No... wait," John stammered desperately in an attempt to diffuse the potentially volatile situation, "he's just being, well, Sherlock." 

"I'll text Jim and let him know the change in plans." Even though he felt ridiculous, Sam made sure to swing his hips while heading out. I t seemed like something Molly would do, so he went with gut instinct. Hopefully reinforcing Molly’s feminine side with an annoyed and huffy exit would patch over some of his blunders tonight. 

\-------------------- 

“But--Molly--” John was nearly out of his seat to bring the woman back. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand Sherlock. In disbelief the compact blond watched as a very rightfully upset and visibly insulted Molly all but stomped out of the restaurant as a result of Sherlock...being Sherlock. “You really are a bloody git, aren’t you. Are you happy now?” He glared at the man he sometimes called friend. 

“Happy? Not really.” Sherlock’s eyes flitted up to John’s face and then went back to the door where Molly had exited through. “I am however, very intrigued. I rather wish she had stayed. Our conversation was only just starting to become interesting.” 

“You call that interesting? I’m surprised she didn’t end up slapping you.” The blond hadn’t lost the hard look in his eye. “A little surprised that I haven’t taken a swing at you over the ‘who cares’ line you gave her. Honestly. 

“Next time, Sherlock, I’d suggest that you be nicer. Keep up antagonizing Molly, and she might not want anything to do with you at all.” 


	4. A chapter where Jim does something.

Chapter 4.  
 ** _A chapter where Jim does something._**

The first thing Sam did was kick off Molly's low heeled pumps as soon as he walked in the door to her apartment. Behind him, he automatically locked the door for the night. Right now Sam wanted was to clean the makeup off, take a hot shower, pop a movie in the VCR and eat some popcorn, maybe a light beer as well. Actually, after that atrocious encounter with Sherlock, he could definitely go for more than one beer. Not that Sam could hold his liquor very well. At most he could probably have two light beers and not worry too much about being hit with a hangover.

"Hey, you're being awfully friendly tonight." Molly's ginger cat, Tobey, intertwined its way around Sam's legs. Smiling, Sam reached down to scratch behind a fuzzy perked ear, he couldn’t help but be reminded of his own two cats from back on the farm while growing up; Donner and Blitzen. The cat yowled loudly as if to proclaim that it had been starved for so long that it had forgotten what food smelled like anymore. 

When Sam checked the cat's food dish, he could that only about a fourth of the food had been eaten. "Yeah. I know, poor thing, you're wasting away to nothing but skin and bones," the man stated sarcastically as he stood to grab the box of kitty kibble. He debated just shaking the bowl to cover the bottom of the dish again, but decided against that tactic; Molly seemed the sort that would give in to her pet’s demands and refill the dish, and Sam didn’t want to alter the daily routines any further than he already had. 

Jim had been texted on the way home, and Sam apologized for the sudden change in plans then claimed that he had a headache to get out of having to deal with any further social interactions tonight. So far everything had bombed horribly; he didn’t want to keep the destructive trend going. 

By the time Sam was in the shower, warm water spraying against his face, Jim texted back. The vibrate mode skittered the mobile phone across the night-table with the message perilously close to the edge. A second text dropped the phone into the awkward space tucked between the table and bed that always ends up eating books and rings. All Sam cared about was that all of his tension was currently being washed down the drain alongside the soapy suds. Hot water truly was a blessing. 

It was nearly magical how relaxed Sam was when he stepped from the shower. Steam rose as the cooler air hit the heated skin. A warm cocoon enveloped the time-displaced man, dulling his senses enough that he nearly missed Al's hoarse whisper. "Sam, you gotta get out now." 

The hologram walked through the door seconds after Sam had managed to scramble into a robe. "Some goons with guns are in the living room, and I don't think they're interested in selling you any girl scout cookies. There're three of them." 

“Was there any record of Molly getting kidnapped or killed in the original timeline?” Sam whispered as he carefully turned the doorknob. He made sure to stay low, and close to where the tiled bathroom walls might provide at least some form of protection. 

“Not even a hint. Hold tight, I’ll try to talk you out of here.” Al punched a button on his hand-link and vanished. 

Breathing stilled, Sam waited. All he had to do was wait and listen for Al’s instructions. The best chance at escape most likely was the fire-escape on the other side of Molly’s window. Sam prayed that Al wouldn’t try to send him out that way. 

Al’s voice carried through the door as the Admiral began barking orders at his friend in an attempt to save Sam’s life. “SAM--” 

\-------------------- 

When John and Sherlock set foot into the apartment building, Agent Donovan was quick to escort the two men into the waiting lift. “Freak’s coming up,” the woman casually stated into her handset. Not even for appearances sake did Donovan attempt to mask her blatant contempt and dislike of Sherlock Holmes. The presence of Holmes meant that Scotland Yard would be made to look like idiots, again. 

“When you say _Molly’s apartment_ you don’t mean _Molly Hooper who works at St Barts_ , who we tried to have dinner with last night, right?” John asked once the doors had slid shut, concern ringing through his voice. He was still grasping at hope that they were being brought in for something simple, not fatal and under no circumstances involving Molly Hooper. 

“Unless you know of another Molly who works at Saint Bart’s, I will have to disappoint you.” Sherlock didn’t seem keen on entertaining questions at the moment. Which in itself was an oddity, seeing as the man normally enjoyed showing off. 

“So, why is Lestrade dragging us out here?” 

That got a raised brow from the consulting detective. He was packed and ready to leave for Minsk in a few hours, and John was inquiring as to _WHY_ DI Lestrade had dragged them--well, himself--out to Molly’s apartment. “It could be any one of several reasons, John.” Sherlock didn’t bother to admit that he’d brought John along for purely personal reasons. Too much stupid in the room tended to make Sherlock start to feel slightly claustrophobic; having John in the vicinity generally helped significantly raise the overall level of intelligence of any locale. 

It really was a shame that Mrs. Hudson would get lonely. If not, Sherlock would have had John accompany him to the Republic of Belarus. Once Mrs. Hudson’s relationship with the baker across the street became more intimate, he was certain that he’d be able to take John along with him on any case that may be outside of their usual circles without having that frustratingly pale twinge of guilt over leaving Mrs. Hudson alone with nothing to occupy her time. 

Sherlock kept his eyes on the lift door; he didn’t need to see the look in John’s eyes. He’d studied those eyes quite intently before, those eyes with their central heterochromia blending together into a harmony of colors. Slate blue encircled warm honey gold, each color in a fight for dominance which tended to be won depending on the blond’s mood. Sherlock mused that possibly John didn’t appreciate the uniqueness of those eyes, radial heterochromia wasn’t all that common; his own research had confirmed that less than 5% of the population possessed this particular genetic anomaly. One article that Sherlock read had claimed that this type of eye colouring was often referred to as ‘cat-eyes’, not that he’d ever attribute feline features to John. At the current moment, slate blue was winning--Sherlock didn’t need to turn his head to see, since he knew John wasn’t in the best of moods...so, blue it was. 

Unfortunately, John considered Molly, at least the imposter that they’d spoken to last night, a friend. Sherlock knew that on some level, his...acquaintance...cared about this woman. For the first time in a long time, Sherlock truly and honestly did not know something; he did not know how he felt about John’s emotions towards the Molly imposter. The girlfriend with the nose was quite obviously a passing fancy that offered no real interest aside from her profession. 

Anderson was waiting for them when the lift doors opened, and Sherlock could feel the sheer ignorance of the man weighing heavy in the air. “You haven’t contaminated the crime scene, have you?” Sherlock snapped at one of Scotland Yard’s least finest. 

Any other day Sherlock would have quite merrily pointed out the barest hint of lipstick on Anderson’s collar that curiously matched the shade Agent Donovan was currently wearing downstairs. However, today wasn’t any other day, today was a day where he was finally getting an interesting mystery. There was a fake Molly that had befriended John, and now there was a homicide investigation going on in her home that he was being called in for. Oh look, blood. 

There wasn’t enough blood on the floor near the lift to believe that the person it belonged to had sustained a life threatening injury. “Anderson, don’t step in the blood,” Sherlock said as he stepped out into the hallway with John in tow. 

“What blood?” Anderson shot back indignantly. 

Sherlock smirked. He’d hit the mark again. “The blood by your left foot. Do try not to step in it, it may be important.” 

\-------------------- 

_Step one, get through the bedroom without being caught. Keeping low, Sam nudged the bathroom door open. Al had let him know when the man in the bedroom had his back to the bathroom and was safe to tackle from behind. Sam did his best to make quick work of the man in a sleeper hold. With a muffled grunt, Sam threw them backwards onto the bed to keep the thrashing to a minimum. Nearer the door, he could head Al’s whoops of encouragement as the hologram kept watch on the living room. A knocked over, well, anything, would spell disaster._

_Sam wrestled on the bed, not caring that his robe hitched up between them. The man he was fighting apparently hadn’t been warned that this confrontation could turn physical, which suited the time-traveling brunet just fine. All he needed was a few seconds to send the attacker into unconsciousness. He could feel the struggles of the man on top of him lessen, and finally subside. Once the man was rolled off and landed face-down on the bed, Sam quickly rearranged his robe and wished that there was time to get dressed. Fighting was one thing, fighting for your life in a terrycloth robe was borderline suicidal._

_“Sammy, primp later, you got another incoming nozzle. Quick, back here,” Al’s head was poking through the ajar bedroom door. Sam slipped from the bed and ducked behind the door. “This one looks like he knows you’re in here, and he means business.”_

_Why hadn’t he grabbed the gun when he had the chance? Sam stood, trembling, waiting behind the door. There was no way he was getting out of this one unscathed. Oh boy._

\-------------------- 

A weary expression that masked the Detective Inspector’s real thoughts spread across Lestrade’s face as Sherlock entered Molly Hooper’s flat. It took very little imagination to have an inkling of how bad this was, and imagination was something that Sherlock had in abundance. 

All the consulting detective had to do was look around to begin piecing together what had transpired here last night. On the floor in the living room was the body of a larger man in his late thirties, single gunshot wound to the neck, bled out. The lamp off to the side of the sofa was broken. Bloodied footsteps showed the remainder of the scuffle. Sherlock stopped, then took a closer look at the footsteps, then back at the body. Something was off about the scene. Out came the magnifying glass. 

Latex snapped smartly when the consulting detective impatiently pulled a set of protective gloves in place. 

Sherlock swept across the room and into what he correctly deduced was Molly’s bedroom. All officers and detectives, and their voiced protests were ignored. The shoddy state of an area rug told him that the skirmish began right there, a few feet from the bathroom. On the bed was the second body, and the traces of a struggle. A bullet hole marked the man’s head with the blood trailing down the left side to seep into the myriad of blankets and comforters that Molly kept on her bed. Presumably the mattress, unless there was a vinyl protective cover under there, was irrevocably stained beyond repair. This is where it started. 

There was a fire-escape less than a handful of yards away. There was no reason for the altercation to have continued; why didn’t their imposter Molly leave through the window? “Very interesting,” Sherlock mused as he checked the windowsill...and saw that it had an untouched layer of dust on it. That made even less sense than the corpse on the bed. 

\-------------------- 

_Hand firmly gripped on the knob, Sam gave a quick rabbit thrust forward on Al's command. It was hard enough that he felt a solid impact against the man on just the other side. He sidestepped the door in time to see a man with a bloodied face still recovering from the blow._

\-------------------- 

Sherlock ran a latex-gloved hand down the door appreciatively, pausing momentarily where it was stained with blood. In the poor light he could see an indentation in the cheap laminate door. Good for the Molly imposter, as incomprehensible a creature she was turning out to be, she at least wasn’t exactly defenseless. A fool, perhaps, but most definitely not defenseless. Impishly Sherlock wondered if it were possible to arrange a double date with John, John’s girlfriend that he kept actively deleting the name of, and this Molly imposter; well, at least arrange the outing once they’d located both this missing Molly and the original. 

\-------------------- 

_There was no time for thought--Sam blindly followed his friend’s orders with complete trust that Al would get him out of here alive. Another blow to the head kept the second assailant stunned enough for Sam to use him as a temporary human shield. The third guy opened fire. Warm blood spilled over Sam’s hands and the man he was hiding behind turned into a dead weight._

_“Sam, the gun, last guy’s at one thirty.” Al barked. Sam grabbed the gun and shot twice as he staggered beneath the corpse. “Two o’clock, MOVE!”_

_Sam made a break for the front door. He'd only made it about halfway when a gut wrenching pain exploded across his side as a bullet ripped into him. The force of the gunshot knocked Beckett to the ground, his senses reeling. His appropriated gun skittered across Molly's floor, where it came to a stop under a decorative table next to the front door. The man managed to scramble up onto all fours, only to find himself thrown back down when an ankle was grabbed and yanked backwards. Never one to let an opportunity like this pass, Sam twisted his entire body and took aim at his attacker's head with his free leg._

\-------------------- 

John watched as Sherlock excitedly flitted around Molly's flat. The detective's expression bore more similarity to that of a child having spotted a gleaming red bicycle all decked out with ribbons under the tree in Christmas morning than that of a friend concerned over an old (he supposed that Sherlock had known Molly for some time now) friend's kidnapping... and who knew what else due to the blood and bodies that seemed to currently decorate the flat. The consulting detective had drawn enough less than appreciative looks when they had walked in; his blasé attitude was earning the both of them even darker glares. 

“Sherlock,” John called out to his friend, “anything you’d mind sharing with the rest of the class?” He didn’t like the way Sherlock’s face positively lit up. 

\-------------------- 

_The door opened just as Sam kicked the third attacker away. He looked up and felt a flood of relief when he saw the person standing there. “Jim!”_

_It was too late for Al’s warning._

_Sam’s world turned black._

\--------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I wasn't 100% certain, I looked up the eye colors for both Benedict Cumberbatch, and Martin Freeman to be on the safe side. I ran into a LOT of conflicting information on what the colors were... and then I stumbled across a little bit of information that made everything make sense. Turns out that apparently BOTH of them have heterocromia (Freeman is radial, and Cumberbatch is sectional). 
> 
> For John's eyes, I decided that I really liked the idea of Sherlock noticing his eyes and finding them interesting to both study and research. It's a nice personal detail that Sherlock would have naturally picked up on. ^.~
> 
> Sherlock's eyes. Benedict has friggin' sections of blue AND green in his eyes, which is insanely awesome! Unfortunately, Sherlock needs to reel back the insane awesomeness and hawtness for a moment (and let John have his own super-special-awesome-sparkly-pretty detail). There are also reasons relating to internal fanfic dynamics that I preferred for Sherlock to have normal green eyes.


	5. A Moving Light at the End of the Tunnel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty has Sam. Of course all Jim wants to do is help the time-lost scientist. What could go wrong. Meanwhile, John and Sherlock talk about.. stuff. Is Sherlock really this dense, or is John just missing something?

Chapter 5.

**_A Moving Light at the End of the Tunnel._**

Waking wasn’t the hard part. That was easy, the sound of machines beeping had started waking him. The hard part was being able to form a coherent thought through the haze that invaded his mind. Sam managed a feeble groan, his eyelids barely fluttering as he tried to reconnect with consciousness. Somewhere off to his left, Sam could hear Al fretting. Part of him just wanted to turn over, curl up and snuggle into the bed under a warm comforter; he vaguely recalled the flowery pattern on Molly’s bed sheets and that one of the blankets there had been particularly comfortable. Why was it so hard to wake up? Normally he just did. So, what was going on? “Al?” Sam choked out, and realized just how thirsty he was. It was lucky that he couldn’t really hear himself; if not, Sam would have been concerned at how vulnerable he sounded at the moment. “Wha...what’s...happening?” 

“Sam, I’m so sorry kiddo…” 

The air was somewhat cooler than he’d have prefered, which was probably why Sam had the desire to curl up under warm blankets. There was a tightness around his waist that he didn’t particularly care for. Sam swallowed, and tried to turn over on his side, but found that he couldn’t. That woke the drugged scientist’s mind further. “Al?” Now Sam fully opened his eyes to take in the scene around him. 

“Don’t talk…” Al’s voice trailed off. 

He was in a hospital bed, wearing a gender-neutral white t-shirt and loose drawstring pants. There wasn’t even a flimsy courtesy sheet draped over him, no wonder he’d been cold. Sam frowned; a four point restraint was being used to keep him in place. Taped to his left arm was an IV; from his vantage point, Sam couldn’t see what was being put into him. He hoped that it was nothing more innocuous than normal saline to keep him hydrated, but somehow he doubted that. He shook his head trying to bring his thoughts back into focus. “ Al?” he asked again even though Al’s outline was starting to look a little fuzzy. “Please?” 

Al moved closer, concern etched across every minute wrinkle on the older man’s face. “Sammy, these goons are watching you like a hawk,” Al ran a hand down his face. “They’ve got security cameras, and an observation room on the other side of that looking glass.” He motioned towards the mirror opposite the foot of the bed. There were no windows in the room. “Sam, that creep from Molly’s apartment, he nailed you with a modified taser. Threw our link for one hell of a loop. I’m a little surprised Ziggy managed to get another lock on you.” 

“Jim.” Sam tried to sit up, and found that was something his restraints weren’t going to allow him to do. “That was Jim, he works in the IT department at St Barts.” 

“Wait, you’re telling me THAT _nozzle_ was Molly’s main squeeze?” 

Sam nodded. 

“Not sure if that makes more or less sense as to why he was able to get a drop on you.” Al glared at the closed door before coming back and motioning towards the cuffs attached to Sam’s wrists with an unlit cigar. “They must’a realized that you know a thing or two about medical restraints. This group is taking no chances on you gettin’ loose. There’s locks on these puppies.” Al refrained from making a comment about the possibility of Molly being kinkier than they originally thought. It wouldn’t help the situation any, and normally the off-color wisecracks were intended to get a rise out of his friend. Right now what Sam needed was a damn lock-pick, not a joke. 

Sam twisted his wrist to get a better look at the locks in question. The cuffs were padded leather, a heavier restraint than what normally would be used to subdue a patient. Then again, he knew there was a simple trick to getting out of the basic four point restraints used by most hospitals. He looked around to see if there was a call button--it was a long shot, but Sam figured that at worst he’d lose a minute of time. No such luck. “How’s the cat?” 

“The cat?” Al blinked, not sure if he heard correctly. The sudden change in conversation topic nearly gave the hologram whiplash. 

“Yeah, the cat, my cat...Molly’s cat. Tobey.” Sam’s speech by now had become audibly slurred. His head flopped back down on the thin pillow as green eyes began to slide shut again. A sleepy gaze kept a curious watch of Al. 

“You get some shut-eye, kid.” The hologram knew that he wasn’t going to be much of a help to his friend now. Granted, he wasn’t always much help, at least not in situations like this. All they could do is wait for an opportunity to get Sam out of this. Unfortunately this was a stickier situation than most. 

It didn’t take a genius to have a decent idea of what was happening. When Sam was brought down with that damn modified taser, it had disrupted the brunet’s brain-waves momentarily. It was almost like a concentrated Biederman incident. The thought of someone running close to 200v. through Sammy’s head, again, was terrifying to say the least. What was scarier, was that even for a botched kidnapping, it was a little more tailored to Sam--not Molly. 

Sam gave a deep sigh. He was about ready to drop back into unconsciousness any minute now. “You...you’re fuzzy,” he stated. Things weren’t quite right by a long shot especially since Al was… “...Like..Gooshie,” Sam yawned. “Al, just in case…please, to be safe, if we lose touch, map Doc Young’s kid. Pard’s tags should have enough recordings...for good waves, like when Sputnik went up. His smile is kind like the one lost in 1973.” 

“Doc Young?” Al watched as Sam finished passing out. That made absolutely no _sense_. He was sure that somewhere in that mega-nerd’s head it meant something, but it made no sense. However, since it did to Sam, there was probably a good reason behind it...now to figure out who the hell Sam was talking about mapping. 

The next few hours were long and painfully silent. Al stayed by his sleeping friend’s side for as long as he could. 

\-------------------- 

John first heard the voice when picking Sherlock up from the airport. He could have sworn that someone had called his name. Even though it had been faint, the voice itself was rough. After looking around momentarily and not finding the source, he didn’t think on it any more, figuring that if someone really wanted his attention they’d have tried harder to get it. 

It wasn’t something that a certain Mr. John Hammish Watson would ever have admitted to, but he did miss his rather eccentric flatmate. Sherlock not being at the flat for the past few days had been both a blessing and a curse. Interesting bits and pieces of humans collected for experimental purposes not appearing in the fridge (or any other unexpected location) had been quite nice. John and Mrs. Hudson had taken full advantage of Sherlock’s absence and cleaned out the kitchen. Perhaps if he put his foot down, Sherlock might not refill the fridge with experiments now that he was back from Minsk. 

“Mars to Doc Watson,” the gravelly voice echoed eerily from seemingly nowhere, bracketed by static. John looked around the entry to the flat in another vain attempt of locating the origin of the disembodied voice. 

“Uhm, hello? Somebody there?” The blond cautiously ascended the stairs. “Sherlock, you heard that?” 

“Heard what?” Sherlock had re-appeared before John could finish coming up. Apparently the detective had done no more than toss his small bag onto the sofa before turning back around. “There was nothing to hear. Come, come. I want another look at Molly’s flat.” Just as jauntily as he went up, Sherlock all but skipped down the stairs. 

“Why?” John’s eyes had gone slate blue again. That annoyance merely received an amused smirk from the brunet. 

“Why?” Sherlock stopped in his tracks, then beamed a little too joyfully at the compact doctor. “The kidnapping. It doesn’t make sense!” 

“That’s it? That’s the only reason you want to go back and check out the crime scene again? Because it doesn’t make sense?” 

“Why else would I go?” It was only logical. 

John rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly at Sherlock’s response. “Wanting to help find out what happened to Molly might be a bit good.” Still, he turned and followed his friend back down and out onto the street. 

\-------------------- 

Sometimes John was certain that Sherlock must have had a spectacularly mis-spent youth. With some of the man’s odd skills, there were precious few other reasons that came to mind. Then again, this was Sherlock; lock-picking and breaking and entering were probably things that the eccentric man did for fun. 

John watched as Sherlock moved excitedly around Molly’s flat. The bodies that had been there on their previous visit had been removed. Most likely they were now sitting down in Saint Bart’s morgue. That thought made the blond miserable. Molly should be the one there, safe and sound and working. 

Molly’s mobile was collected from under the bed. A short stint with her computer, and a glance at the bookshelves had Sherlock beaming again. That sort of excitement made John very nervous. The upside to such interest was, John figured, Molly’s predicament had the detective’s undivided attention. “Well. Anything?” 

Long fingers steepled in front of his face, Sherlock turned to face John fully. Street lights on the other side of the bedroom window glowed warmly, turning Sherlock’s long and lanky form into a silhouette. There was just enough illumination to see the detective’s overly pleased smile in the wan light. “Enough to know that there is not one missing person, but two. Molly’s been missing for at least the past three days, at most five,” Sherlock continued, completely ignoring John’s aborted attempt at a question. “The person kidnapped from this flat two days ago, the very same woman you invited to dinner, was an imposter. A delightfully interesting imposter, but an imposter nonetheless.” 

“IM--IMPOSTER?!” The blond managed to sputter. 

“Well, yes. Her attitude the other night suggested that Molly herself is in no danger.” 

“Wait. You _knew_ that wasn’t Molly, and you did nothing?” John was _just_ this side of livid. 

“A woman who looks and sounds enough like Molly Hooper to fool friends and coworkers? No, no, no,” Sherlock’s hands fluttered as though he were waving John’s concerns off, “if I’d announced at the restaurant that she was a fake, you’d never have believed me. After all, why should you? You’d spoken to her, seen her functioning within her work environment and no one acted as though she were out of place. As far as anyone was concerned, that woman _was_ Molly. It’s absolutely illogical for someone to go through that amount of time, money and effort to replace one forensic technician, especially one as remarkably dull as our Molly. 

“The imposter wanted to speak with _you_ on that intriguing date, not me. I was seen as a threat, but you weren’t. She felt comfortable speaking with you.” 

John crossed his arms and stepped back as Sherlock swept out of Molly’s bedroom. The detective came to a halt in front of a bookcase. 

“The manner in which she spoke of Doctor Beckett implies a familiarity with either him, or his work. Based on her age, we can assume the familiarity comes from his publications, which means our imposter is either a genius, an obsessed fanatic, or both; I’m inclined to believe that she is both. One does not normally pick up literature on Quantum Physics or Advanced Chemistry as light reading. 

“Molly, on the other hand,” long graceful fingertips trailed across several neatly shelved book spines, “seems to consider tawdry Harlequin romances as acceptable reading material. Aside from a few old textbooks, most likely kept for sentimental reasons, there is nothing on Molly’s shelves or coffee table more mentally stimulating than last month’s issue of Glamour.” 

“In other words, you knew that Molly’s been missing, for days, and didn’t do a single blessed thing about it?” John did not look pleased as he stated this. 

Of all the reactions he could have fathomed for his flatmate to have, annoyance, disdain and anger? Those reactions were nowhere on that list. Sherlock blinked disbelievingly. “Really, John. I don’t see how that’s relevant.” 

“You don’t-- You don’t see how that’s relevant? Bloody hell, Sherlock! You KNEW! Yet you sat there two nights ago, and damn well antagonized a woman who was involved in kidnapping Molly!” Blood rushed to John’s cheek’s as he colored in anger. “No one’s reported her missing, hell, there’ve been no _ransom_ demands. Is Molly even still alive?” 

\-------------------- 

Still half asleep, Sam rolled over on the bed and yawned. At some point in the past couple of hours, or was it days, a nurse that had refused to give a name had finally undone his restraints. When the nurse had first shown up there had been a rather large goon with her. He supposed the goon was supposed to act as a deterrent for any potential rebellion Sam might have had in mind. Considering the fact that Sam wasn’t entirely certain whether or not he could reliably stand on his own, something told him that fighting his way out of this place wasn’t going to happen at this moment in time. Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed but didn’t bother getting up yet. 

In the back of his mind, Sam noted that he wasn’t wearing the same clothes he remembered from last time he woke. The white t-shirt had been replaced with a tank top, and instead of the non-descript white drawstring pants, the new set were blue striped. He was somewhat pleased to see he wasn’t attached to an IV anymore. Without thinking about it, Sam rubbed at the sore spot on his arm where the needle had been taped in place. Large purple bruises that were already trying to fade into green had formed on his arm, a natural reaction to the intravenous injection. 

Alertness crept back into Sam’s green eyes as he scanned the area. There were a few new additions to the once spartan room. A set of adjustable shelves were installed on the right wall to Sam’s right and had been stocked with several books. From his vantage point he couldn’t read the titles, but the general graphic design on the spines suggested technology and other related subject matter. The cameras were still in place, that much hadn’t changed. 

The door opened, and in came the nurse. She was flanked by the goon that Sam vaguely recalled as having been the third assailant that had broken into Molly’s apartment. The thug eyed Sam as though he were itching for a rematch. Behind both was a third figure that hadn’t bothered to enter the room just yet. 

Legs tangled in the bedsheets that dangled over the side of the bed. Sam instinctively jerked away from the larger man and became even more tangled in the sheets. Losing balance, Sam was sent flailing over the opposite side of the bed to the floor with a more than undignified yelp. The bedsheets and one pillow followed him down. “Ow.” 

“Sam, really, you need to be more careful.” An overly jovial voice spoke from the doorway. 

“Al?” That didn’t sound like Al. Sam blinked. Who would be referring to him by name? Al was the only person that ever called him ‘Sam’, at least until he leapt into someone named Sam. Confused, he tried detangling himself from his current predicament. 

“No. Soo--Oooorry!” The words were stretched out in a sing-song manner. “Jim.” 

That wasn’t what he expected to hear. From the other side of the bed Sam poked his head up. Sure enough, Jim was there watching with an amused smirk. “Jim?” Why was _Molly’s JIM_ calling ‘her’ SAM? 

“You know how adorable you look when confused,” Jim’s smirk spread into a wide inviting smile, “or--should I say that _Molly_ looks absolutely adorable when _you_ are confused?” 

“I-- I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sam climbed back up onto the bed, keeping a mindful eye on the thug. 

“No, I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about, Sam.” Jim made a dismissive gesture at the thug. It didn’t take long for the larger man to slip back out of the room, leaving the nurse, Jim and Sam. “Don’t worry about Diane, she’s just here for the usual monitoring bullshit. You know, blood-pressure, pulse, and all that other insignificant health crap. We do want to make sure that _you_ stay as healthy as possible.” 

“Jim, why are you calling me _Sam_? My name is Molly, not Samantha.” He didn’t offer any resistance when the nurse, Diane, approached him and placed the blood pressure cuff around his arm. 

“Cute. You can drop the act. I _know_ who you are. I’m a pretty big fan of your work, Dr. Beckett. Though, curiosity is killing me--just what does a guy do as an encore to building a functional parallel hybrid computer?” 

Sam sighed. “Fine.” The nurse continued to take different readings, and finally drew a small vial of blood from his arm. The gig was up. This joker knew his name. Only a handful of times had it been useful to openly admit what was happening. Once it’d even saved his life. Part of Sam still debated the practicality of trying to keep up the charade of being Molly, but discarded it--unless things panned out much differently than he expected. “What-- How...how did you know...about...me?” 

That got an amused chuckle. “A while ago I managed to acquire the remnants of a defunct government project. Your name popped up a few times in the project’s salvaged mission data. The right information, and knowing Molly. Imagine the surprise when I realized who I was talking to over coffee; Doctor Samuel Beckett himself.” 

“Over coffee? That was when you realized I wasn’t Molly?” Sam didn’t sound completely convinced. 

“That was also when I knew I had to help you. You weren’t very adept with Molly’s computer. A simple browser spell-check originally eluded you--today even the kiddies can figure that one out. Not that they use it. So your technological knowledge stopped somewhere in the late 1990’s.” Jim made his way slowly across the room towards Sam, stopping at the foot of the bed. “Molly is fascinated with American sitcoms, silly shows that are mostly mind-numbing drivel; you, on the other hand, can hold a conversation about the advancements of the medical field due to quantum physics experimentation just as easily as you can talk about Elvis or John O’Malley’s run as Don Quixote in Man of La Mancha while it was on Broadway.” 

Now Moriarty had Sam’s full undivided attention. The nurse finished with the man on the bed, she stepped back and waited near the door. Like he did with the troglodyte, Jim waved her out as well. “I want to help bring you back. Will you _let_ me help you?” Hands firmly gripping the footboard, Jim leaned in closer. 

On the bed, Sam leaned forward as well. Their faces were close enough to kiss. Sam knew that Jim still visually perceived him as Molly. He just hoped the knowledge that beneath Molly’s cute aura was lurking a forty-something-year-old man who would be able to shake the other man and get him to back down first. “You claim that you want to help, but kidnap and drug me instead of sitting down to talk about this like a rational person. Now, I know at least one man died when you were busy having me kidnapped. I think, since you obviously know something about me, that you can understand how I’m having a hard time believing that you really have my best interests in mind.” 

That was the first time that Sam really had thought about his age. How old was he? Born in 1953, which meant that now in 2011 he should be 58. Why didn’t he feel that old? It was the sudden confusion that made Sam back down first. He still felt like he was still in his forties. Normally he didn’t bother thinking about age, but--normal didn’t exactly apply to his life, and even less to this situation. 

\-------------------- 

John stood outside Sarah’s flat. His fingers traced the knocker gingerly before curling around the well-worn metal and he gave it a sharp rap. He just didn’t understand Sherlock at all. How could the man honestly not give a second thought to Molly’s kidnapping, John mused? Were people just that _unimportant_ in the grand scheme of things to the consulting detective? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just gotta toss out a HUGE 'Thank You' to my beta-reader, Lunarennui. If she wasn't helping correct my grammar, then this fic would not be progressing as nicely as it has been. Seriously, sometimes I feel pretty bad about her having to deal with my terrible writing skills. XD


	6. An Explosive Good Time!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The explosion near 221B Baker Street sends John running to check on Sherlock! An unseen visitor starts making plans, and Jim chats with a still healing Sam. Golly!

Chapter 6.

**_An Explosive Good Time!_**

It was the new report of the gas explosion near Baker Street that sent John running back that morning, terrified that something might have happened to Sherlock. Any thought of Sarah had been banished from John’s mind. All during the cab ride to Baker Street, the only images that raced through the army medic’s mind were those of Sherlock’s body, broken and mangled, somewhere in their flat which had been reduced to nothing but rubble. The thought of losing Sherlock was almost enough to wrench John’s still-beating heart from his chest. It scared him. He’d experienced the worst of what humanity could do in Afghanistan. John never thought that the horrors would follow him home in such an agonizing way. 

The cab let John off just a few feet from the door to 221B. Thankfully there wasn’t any serious structural damage that he could see, but then again, the side of the building closest to the blast was the opposite side. John entered and went up the stairs, taking two at a time in his rush so he could see that Sherlock was unharmed. 

John’s heart only returned to his chest once he saw Sherlock. His relief turned to confusion when he took note of the fact that Mycroft Holmes was also in the room. The Holmes brothers’ interaction was going about as well as he imagined one would go. The ambient temperature in the room was probably about ten degrees lower in the room than outside. 

A faint voice spoke, and as before, only John could hear the barely audible sound. It was the same he’d heard before calling his name. _Can --- hear --- Johnny boy?_ , John thought it said. 

\-------------------- 

Sam had all but devoured overnight the books provided. For lack of a better place to be, he lounged in bed, one of the more advanced texts open on his lap. He mused over some of the more practical applications of the theories provided. It was a welcome distraction over the glaring issues he was currently facing. 

There was a light click by the door, which Sam belatedly recalled as being the sound of the lock being disengaged. 

“Nice to see you’re awake and getting comfortable.” Jim slunk into the room. “It’s also nice to see that you haven’t tried the door.” 

Green-eyes flicked over to the man. Jim’s suit was impeccable. “With as elaborate a set-up as you have in here, even if I got through _that_ door, something tells me that I wouldn’t get very far.” Sam gave a weak shrug. “Plus, the little shhh-ka-chik sound the lock makes each time someone comes in here is sort of a giveaway.” 

“ _Very_ observant. That is sexy.” 

“Not really.” Sam rolled his eyes, cheeks colored lightly. Right now Molly’s neurons and mesons were the most likely culprits to his blush. Then again, Sam wasn’t 100% sure about that. The only other person who had complimented _him_ for the past several years was Al. Being acknowledged for himself was a novelty. “Because of the leaps. I’ve had to pick things up quickly, it’s survival instinct by now. Leaping into a person, not knowing who they are, what year it is, or even where they are; any bit of information becomes useful. 

“Since you were here last, Diana came in three more times to do her rounds. Each time I heard that sound. Stands to reason that it’s the door lock.” 

“Still quite sexy.” Jim was all smiles now, and Sam found it oddly comforting. “You don’t seem very upset over the locked door.” 

“Not much I can do about it. I’m still recovering,” Sam touched the bandages currently hidden beneath his shirt, “so, I don’t see the point in pushing my luck. The restraints are gone, that’s a step in the right direction. Little less than pleased over the getting _shot and tasered_ while being kidnapped because you wanted to help me.” 

"My collection team was a little over-enthusiastic picking you up. But trust me, bringing you here really was done in your best interest." 

Sam's flat expression spoke volumes. "I take it that the fluctuating electrical field with, I'm guessing, intermittent alpha wave ionic pulses around this area...is also in my best interest?" 

"Noticed that too?" 

"Hard not to. My friend hasn't come back yet. Normally by now he'd have checked back in with me. Since you _know_ about me, then I’m also guessing that you figured out how to cut my contact off, which means you needed something a little more advanced than a normal faraday field.” 

\-------------------- 

Unbeknownst to any of the men in the room, Al paced back and forth between both John Watson and Mycroft Holmes; personally, he still wasn’t sure what to think about Sherlock, but Sam seemed to instinctively trust John, and Sam so happened to be the project head at Quantum Leap. Al had trusted Sam’s gut instinct in dicier situations, and figured that in order to get Sam _back_ , some of the project’s rules could be bent to near breaking point. All of John’s military and civilian records were fed into Ziggy’s data banks, and the man’s credentials rushed in order to obtain the security clearances that were required to even begin attempting this particular link. Then came the programming phase. 

It didn’t happen often, and because of that, several of the project technicians considered themselves very blessed. They’d been lucky, Gooshie was able to retrieve some of the alpha files for the neurological data stream program. It hadn’t been easy, but Gooshie and Fuller were finally able to get a stable program that expanded Ziggy’s neural net in order to get a consistent lock on John’s brain waves without flooding the delta regions of the hybrid computer’s core processor. The process would have been more direct if they’d been able to back-up then overwrite all files associated with Doctor Beckett’s neurological mapping sequence. However, no one was willing to even attempt such a thing since it would mean that they might permanently lose the ability to track Sam. Their only hope at that point would be completely re-compiling the program into Ziggy’s data banks and calibrating for the inevitable stream shifts that would result from the disruption in connectivity. 

Now the problem was calibrating the systems to allow for the subatomic agitation of the carbon quarks tuned to the mesons of Doctor Watson’s optic and otic neurons in order for John to be aware that there was a neurological hologram just waiting to have one heck of a talk with him. Again, this entire process was further complicated by the fact that they were now dividing Ziggy’s broadcast transfer stream by attempting to maintain two target minds; Sam Beckett’s and John Watson’s. 

Mycroft was speaking to John; Al kept his attention half on what the elder Holmes was saying, and half on the information that the handlink seemed to be happily squawking about...Andrew West’s murder. Al decided that even though John couldn’t consciously see or hear him, he might as well continue with his usual duty of relaying information; there was the chance that John’s _subconscious_ was listening.


	7. Truly Outrageous.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is starting to see things, and doesn't like the thought that this might imply he is losing his mind. Sherlock doesn't seem to be overly bothered by this. Then again, everyone knew that John must be mad to stay around Sherlock in the first place. 
> 
> Fortunately, or depending on how one views the situation, unfortunately... Sam is recuperating quite nicely under the tender loving care of a certain Jim Moriarty.

Chapter 7.

**_Truly Outrageous._**

In the lab at Saint Bart’s that Sherlock on some level considered to be his ‘home away from home’, John paced up and down across the table from where Sherlock stood at the microscope. Next to the dark-haired genius was a monitor running through samples; of what, only Sherlock knew. On the table next to Sherlock sat the trainers that they’d picked up from 221C Baker Street. 

Just the thought that the bomber had been so close to their home made John uncomfortable. The entire case was giving the blond a bad taste in his mouth. It didn’t seem as though _Sherlock_ was overly concerned about anything as he gazed into the microscope in front of him. 

“So, who do you suppose it was?” John asked. He gave a slight break to the pacing. 

“Hmm?” Sherlock ignored the sharp trill from his mobile, a text message alert. Instead, it seemed as though the detective had barely even registered the existence of anything outside of the contents of the slide viewed through the microscope lens. 

“The woman on the phone--the crying woman, Karen Verne.” John’s tone was near exasperation. 

Sherlock’s attention finally turned towards his...friend. He studied John curiously. No one knew who the kidnapped woman was, so why had John stated a name? And it didn’t seem as though the blond was even aware of what he’d said. Now _that_ was intriguing. If John wasn’t noticing, Sherlock wondered, what else would he say if properly prodded? So far, the best way that he’d found to raise a reaction from John was to feign indifference to the human element of the equation; not that Sherlock had to do much feigning in this instance. “Oh, Karen doesn’t matter. She’s just a hostage. No lead there.” 

That response hit all the right buttons on John. The blond replied exasperatedly. “For God’s sake, I wasn’t thinking about leads.” 

“You’re not going to be much use to her.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to the monitor near him as the samples continued to fail to produce a match. 

“Are--are they _trying_ to trace it, trace the call?” John managed to stammer in near-disbelief. 

“The Bomber’s too smart for that.” 

\-------------------- 

Al’s eyes snapped up as the phone trilled again. Another message. As he would for Sam, even though he could just walk straight through it, Al stepped around the table in the middle of the room so that he’d be nearer to John. He’d heard the blond’s slip of the tongue regarding Karen Verne’s name as well, which simply delighted the hologram since that meant at least _something_ was getting through. But was it enough to be able to save Sam’s ass? 

“Pass me my phone.” Sherlock stated. Al would have wagered a guess that the phone’s constant chirping had finally gotten on the detective’s nerves. 

As John looked around the room, Al followed. Not that there was a whole lot else he _could_ do as a neurological hologram. It didn’t take long for John to give up, the phone wasn’t sitting where a normal person would be able to find it. “Where is it?” 

“Jacket.” 

Even though he wasn’t physically present, Al was sorely tempted to take a swing at Sherlock for that one. From the expression on John’s face, it seemed that the sentiment was shared. Al was amused when John jostled the taller man while rifling through the worn jacket pocket in the search for the buzzing phone. It seemed to Al that the only reason Sherlock hadn’t been unseated was that the detective had been expecting that sort of reaction. 

For his part, Sherlock barely budged, and had managed to keep looking through the eyepiece of his microscope. “Careful!” Sherlock snapped. 

Al glanced back down at his hand-link and shook his head while John pawed his way through Sherlock’s jacket. No wonder everyone thought those two had a little slap and tickle between the sheets going on. Hell, he and Sam were close; but he’d have told Sam off for crap like that. Al reconsidered; depending on the situation, which this was _clearly not_ , he had been known to pull a pen from Sam’s pocket. But that was a completely different set of circumstances. 

John looked at the screen of Sherlock’s phone. “Text from your brother.” The text piqued Al’s curiosity, and he immediately started typing in information so that Ziggy would pull up any data she could. After all, there wasn’t anyone currently investigating the missing Top Secret Missile plans. 

“Delete it,” was Sherlock’s impassive reply. 

“Delete it?” For a moment it sounded as if John hadn’t heard the slender detective quite clearly. 

Sherlock didn’t even pull away from the microscope that held his attention. “Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it.” His tone was dismissive to the point of condescension. 

Al grinned. The handlink chirped, trilled and whistled enthusiastically as it started feeding him relevant data. 

\-------------------- 

The nurse had already checked Sam’s bandages for the day. Sam hadn’t argued when she’d handed over a small cup with medications after checking and recording the rest of his vitals. No one was forcing him to take these pills; after the first time he’d refused, Sam learned the hard way why they were being offered. The next four hours had been agony once the previous painkiller had worn off. The main reason Sam figured that four hours had passed was that that was the medically accepted amount of time required to wait between doses. There hadn’t been any need to fight the next dosage offered. He also didn’t complain too loudly when Diana gave him a sponge bath and helped to change him into a clean set of clothes. 

Sam guessed that the main painkiller was an oxycodone. But that was just a guess based on the effectiveness of the medication. 

For the most part, Sam was bored. Bored, bored, bored... BORED! 

The worst aspect of being held captive was that Sam had a good inkling of what was being done to him. Those pills, those were a mercy, a luxury. Jim had stated before that he wanted Sam healthy. _Jim wants to help_ , the unwanted thought drifted through Sam’s mind. Nothing had ever been said about his comfort level, and Sam knew full well that no one _had_ to give him something to deaden the pain in his stitched side; technically all they had to do was make sure he didn’t tear the stitches or get an infection at the wound site. Painkillers were a potentially dangerous frosting which he was accepting. 

Sam’s eyes flicked to the books on the few shelves, books that he’d already read; some, three times by now. Those were also ‘frosting’. He was already itching for more books, or even a notebook and pencil to start jotting down new ideas. Something told him that if he asked, they’d be given. 

For the past decade, Sam had existed on an emotional pendulum which continually swung him back and forth between dread and fear to the highest peaks of elation; only to be dropped back into chaotic uncertainty after he’d leapt into a new person for the cycle to begin anew. True, he’d been kidnapped before (on more than one occasion, to be honest) and always during those kidnappings, he’d been threatened with bodily harm. As of this point in time, he hadn’t yet been actively threatened by Jim; just detained and forced to recuperate. 

Sam had to admit, being able to interact with other people and not pretend to be someone else was very nice. 

There was a familiar little shhh-ka-chik sound. Sam didn’t bother to sit up as the door opened and Moriarty stepped inside. “ Archaeology. There’s nothing on those shelves about archaeological discoveries in the past decade.” An impish smile graced Sam’s features. On the book in his lap, he drummed his fingertips to a slowed beat of Chopin’s Revolutionary Étude. “Same for astronomy. With the advancements made in technology, I refuse to believe that there haven’t been any advancements made in either of those fields since my initial leap.” 

Moriarty’s smile mirrored Sam’s. 

\-------------------- 

“They’re just a pair of shoes.” John cleared his throat and corrected himself. “Trainers.” 

Sherlock watched as John continued studying the shoe in his hand. “Good.” Breaking eye contact, the detective took his mobile and began a search as the former army medical doctor continued the examination. 

“Uhm, they’re in good nick. I’d say they’re pretty new...” John’s voice trailed off a bit as he thought, then resumed speaking. “Except the sole had been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while. 

“They’re very eighties--probably one of those retro designs. Except--” John stopped completely. He took a deep breath, then seemed to re-evaluate the shoe in hand. “These aren’t retro. They’re the limited edition two blue stripe Adidas Super Trainer sneakers. The non-limited versions were only sold between 1988 and 1995. They’re original.” 

The shoe was set down next to its partner. “The blue smudge on the inside. Traces of a name written in felt-tip. Adults don’t write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid. Carl Powers. He loved these shoes, kept them in good repair, scrubbed them clean, whitened them when they became discolored. There’s still mud on them, which is a state he’d never have willingly left them in unless something really bad happened to him.” 

At first John truly believed that he had been speaking himself, and that all the ideas spoken were his own. Then he realized there was someone else beside him, speaking. The man next to him was feeding him information, details that no one other than Sherlock would have noticed; details that Sherlock had _yet_ to notice. John took a second look at the shoes on the table. There was no way that he’d have normally known these were original vintage Adidas super trainer sneakers with the limited edition two blue stripe design from the mid 90’s and not the new retro Kobe Crazy 8 basketball shoes that had a similar colouring and sole design. Then again, John had never been that much into most any form of fashion. 

“Would you just _SHUT UP?!_ ” John turned his head and yelled sharply at the thin air. It took a second before he realized that no one was there. Once that realization had fully dawned on the man, he unintentionally leapt back into Sherlock’s arms. For his part, Sherlock managed to somehow nonetheless catch the now-flailing John. “There’s--there’s no one there…” John managed to whimper shakily before detangling himself from Sherlock’s long and lanky limbs, and removed himself from the man’s lap. 

“There isn’t anyone there.” Sherlock confirmed, eyebrow raised, studying his flatmate’s curious reactions. If there hadn’t been anyone there, then where were John’s answers coming from? Well, there was definitely _something_ suspicious going on. This was no longer interesting in an amusing way. 

John’s breathing was hard and irregular as he collected his thoughts. He wanted to tell Sherlock that there _had_ been someone there. It had been an older man wearing a bright red hat, white button-up shirt with a silver bolo-tie and teal pants. One just didn’t make up little old men that _looked like that!_ Unfortunately, telling Sherlock that invisible men were talking to him was a recipe for trouble…and possibly a one way ticket to a padded room. Matters weren’t being helped with how Sherlock was watching him; it reminded John more than a wee bit of how Sherlock had been watching Molly’s imposter. 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice interrupted his friend’s thoughts. “John, you are tired. Go back to the flat and rest. When I return, we will talk.” Normally the detective would have thoroughly interrogated John, but something in the man’s eyes stopped him. Sherlock would never admit it, but now was when he felt most possessive over the stocky blond, and was quickly vowing to slowly gut whomever was causing him this distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moley!!! I now officially hate Carl Powers' shoes... stupid things were a pain in the keister to identify. Well, they aren't quite properly identified. My awesome beta reader, Lunarennui, and I spent a while trying to find a shoe that would fit the requirements, we came as close as we could; and then I started to make stuff up to force everything to fit. Woot! ^.~
> 
> But in all honesty, I spent about two days looking up shoes. My beta spent an afternoon helping out. Stupid shoes. XD
> 
> *pets John* Poor dearie... don't worry, you aren't allowed to go bonkers, at least not until I've finished playing with you. <3


	8. Imagine...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty settles Sam into a new and more interesting environment. While getting used to the new setting, Sam reminisces about the past.

Chapter 8.

_**Imagine...**_

there’s no heaven…” Perched on a stationary bike, Sam sang to himself as he pedaled his way towards a respectable cardiovascular workout. “it’s easy if you try - no hell below us, above us only sky…” Sam remembered the last time he sang this one. It had been for his little sister, Katie; she cried when the implications of the song had sunk in. That was in 1969, the song _Imagine_ wasn’t released until late 1971. Of course Katie had cried. 

Singing itself was an old habit picked up while growing up on the farm. When Sam had been running around doing chores, compact discs were at least a decade and a half from even being invented, and walkmans weren’t going to be around for another decade. His brother had a portable eight track player, but that wasn’t bought until Sam was in his early teens, and even then it was Tom’s property. Then again, Tom never was too keen on leaving his little brother alone with the mechanical device, seeing as how Sam tended to eye the eight track player in much the same way Sherlock had watched Sam. In all honesty, the first few eight track cartridges did not survive their stay in the Beckett home as a young Sam ascertained how they worked by opening them up. 

So, Sam sang while milking the cows and pitching hay. The beat of the music was the tempo to which he worked. Sometimes, Sam liked to imagine that the cows’ milk was sweeter when they were sung to. Logically he knew that wasn’t right, but it was something fun to pretend was true. Singing also helped to pass the time since working with his nose in a book wasn’t very practical. 

Later in life, at Project Quantum Leap, music had constantly poured through the speakers. The songs ranged from anything modern with a catchy beat, to show tunes, and everything in between. As a joke, Sam had even programmed Elvis’ entire discography into Ziggy’s memory banks, along with an amusing little ditty of a rap-song. Belting out the lyrics to ‘ _The Impossible Dream_ ’ from the Man of La Mancha always got a good chuckle from Al; which in turn helped to lift Sam’s spirits. Consequently, music from Man of La Mancha tended to get played, a lot. 

“Smart, charming, _and_ can sing.” The amused sounding voice came from Moriarty who stood in the open doorway to the room Sam was currently in. “Really, is there anything you don’t do?” 

“Hmm?” Sam hadn’t even realized that he’d closed his eyes while working out. He thought a moment on the question. “Uhm, sail. Never learned how. Also never learned how to play wind instruments.” 

“You aren’t asked many rhetorical questions, are you?” Moriarty’s dark eyes roamed over Sam’s body, calculating _what_ Sam would look like if he weren’t being obscured by Molly’s aura. “You’re settling in nicely. If I’d known you’d head straight for the exercise equipment first instead of the books, I’d have made sure to have had a flatscreen in here as well.” 

Sam shrugged, but didn’t stop pedaling. He’d asked for a couple of books. Instead, Jim moved him to a completely different location. Not that Sam was arguing. This was more frosting. The new accommodations were much more spacious than the single room he’d been confined to earlier. This was more along the lines of a rather odd little apartment. “I’ve been stuck in a bed for who knows how long. Breaking a sweat seemed like a welcome change. I’m not overdoing it. Also been keeping an eye on my heart-rate and made sure to not jostle the stitches.” 

Unlike the single room he’d been confined to earlier, this strange little apartment had a rather cozy bathroom. The shower, in said bathroom, looked like it would give one of the most luxurious showers in Sam’s life. That said, he’d been more than happy to see that Jim had thought to provide waterproof wound dressing protectors. Sam fully intended later on to spend at least an hour or more under the hot spray. 

Sam smiled brightly back at Jim. “Yes, studied medicine in addition to everything else. You understand what it’s like, to just not want to be bored anymore.” 

When Sam had first been brought into this area, he’d naturally been drawn to the bookshelves in the main room. It was only once he’d given the book spines a cursory glance that he’d turned and explored the rest of the space. 

The main room, which Sam supposed was a living room, had a sofa. The sofa’s feet were bolted to the floor, and the bolts welded in place for extra security. To the sofa’s right were the bookshelves, bolted to the wall. Sam wondered in what universe he’d use a bookshelf as a weapon… then again, they were large and could be toppled onto a person. A blanket had been tossed onto the sofa to give it a slightly warmer feeling. 

In front of the sofa was a coffee table. Sam wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that the coffee table was also bolted down, and that the bolts had gone through a throw rug. Sitting on the table was a universal remote along with the instructions on how to use both it and something called a roku, whatever that was. Sam figured that the roku had something to do with the large flat screen tv secured via obsessive lengths to the wall across from the sofa. 

There was also a barely stocked kitchenette. Mostly it was snacks of varying levels of healthiness. Sam took this to mean that his meals were still being delivered to him. A quick check of the fridge revealed juice, soda, and (much to his delight) a six-pack of light beer. On the counter were a few small appliances were bolted down just at the rest of the furniture was. Part of Sam was curious how anyone was going to deal with clearing the crumbs out of the toaster since it was bolted down like that. The counter extended out to be used as an eating area. Predictably, there were stools there, bolted down and welded into place like everything else. 

Unlike the previous place of confinement, there were three doors at his disposal as opposed to the single locked one from before. One door, the one that led out of here, was locked with a keycard. The other two, hid an exercise room and a bedroom, respectively. Just off the bedroom was a bathroom with shower. There were also windows. 

The one item in the entire place that really had surprised Sam by being there, was the slender tablet that had been left on the kitchen counter. He hadn’t bothered playing with that, mainly because he didn’t know what to think of it. 

Sam hadn’t actively noticed any cameras yet, but figured that those were tucked in with the recessed lighting that illuminated the apartment. As spaced out as the lighting was, he was still under a fair bit of observation. At least the frosting was nice. 

“Just to be on the safe side, a schedule will be set up with a personal trainer. I just popped in to make sure you were settling in nicely... So, unless you’ve any specific questions --” Moriarty kept a careful eye on Sam. 

The response was an amused smile. Oh, Sam had questions, and that was too good an opening to pass up... 

\-------------------- 

Sherlock eyed the trainers on the table as he thought about what had happened with John. While the name _Carl Powers_ wouldn’t have meant anything to his flatmate, it did however, mean a great deal to Sherlock. He’d been the only one so many years back that had thought there was anything questionable about the death of Carl Powers. There was absolutely no reason for that specific name to have come from John’s lips. 

Quietly, Sherlock mentally replayed the entire incident with John. The way that John had turned and spoken to thin air was disturbing. John had seemed entirely too confident that he’d been telling some invisible person to be quiet, only to find the space empty. That would unnerve most anyone. Sherlock suspected that John was even more shaken up due to military training, and John was one of the more _stable_ people that Sherlock had ever had the good fortune to interact with. 

“Carl Powers,” Sherlock stated to no one in particular since the room was currently empty. He remembered the news report as though he’d read it yesterday. With an eidetic memory, recalling something of the sort wasn’t that great an accomplishment given sufficient time to access the right information. Great accomplishments were weeding out useless and clutterful bits of information, like so much flotsam and jetsam from ocean currents. 

Whomever was causing John distress knew about little Carl… a young champion swimmer who had come to London from Sussex, and consequently drowned in 1989. The incident had called to Sherlock’s interest, and had been the first time he’d ever attempted to investigate what he believed to be a crime. Unfortunately, the police were more than a little hesitant to take seriously into consideration the word of an eight year-old, especially when they believed the entire case to be nothing more innocuous than a mere accident in the water. 

Sherlock wondered what link this new shadowy group may have with the bomber. As much as he hated to admit, that specific thought would have to be dealt with at a later time. There was a crying woman, Karen Verne as John had unwittingly pointed out, that required assistance. Not that Sherlock cared all that much about her, what he _did_ care about was John’s emotional response to whether or not this particular woman exploded. As far as Sherlock could understand from his flatmate’s responses; there was an unusual touch of innocence in how John perceived the world, and for completely illogical reasons, it was that small spark of innocence which Sherlock was most interested in protecting. Sherlock never would have imagined that this is also how John felt about him in return. 

On the cab ride back to the flat, Sherlock’s head reeled from the possibilities. The trainers had been safely packed into a plastic sack. Even though the equipment Sherlocked owned wasn’t as modern as the equipment at Saint Barts, it was more than possible to continue his investigation into why these particular trainers were so important right now. The other advantage to going back to the flat was that...it would allow Sherlock to keep a closer eye on John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eight-track players, how can you not love them? Originally, I was going to have Sam eyeing Tom's portable radio... but, decided to swap it out in favor of an eight-track. As soon as the idea of the 8-track player being there was mentioned while chatting with my beta, Lunarennui, we both cackled gleefully and latched on to it. Since my only experience with 8-tracks was from a practically ancient hi-fi system that my family owned years back (it played vinyl, 8-track AND cassettes! how spiffy was that?), I had to look up information to make sure I wasn't putting an anachronistic piece of technology into the 1960-1970's. 
> 
> Obsolete technology, FTW!


	9. Getting to the Root of it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock forces a confrontation of sorts. Unfortunately Al isn't very happy about this course of events... neither is John. Though, probably the best question is, what happened to John's pants? It's a mystery! 
> 
> Also, Sam should really stop talking with his new best pal Jim.

Chapter 9.

_**Getting to the Root of it.**_

Sherlock watched John carefully. They’d solved the Carl Powers case, and by _they_ , Sherlock meant himself. The information that John had given him, he would have eventually deduced it. Not that this came as any great consolation in regards to what was occurring with John. When the four pips sounded on that wretched pink phone, and the photo of an abandoned car came through with the subsequent call, (another weeping person, another stolen voice) Sherlock knew that the game was nowhere close to being done. The first task had been completed in less than nine hours, this new one with the car was supposed to be completed within eight. 

Even though John didn’t say anything to his friend about the oddness that had happened the other day, he continually looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see a ghost. It was usually only out of the corner of his eye that John could see a brightly dressed older gentleman standing just off to the side. Last thing John wanted to do was admit he was losing his mind, especially when someone’s life was on the line as the case was currently. Agent Donovan actively questioning his sanity and making hobby suggestions wasn’t helping matters. 

It was during the cab ride back from Janus Cars that anything significant happened, at least as far as Sherlock or Al were concerned. John wasn’t particularly paying attention to what was happening in the cab, as Sherlock was often silent during the longer trips from point A to point B. John let out a loud sigh and spoke as if to some invisible stranger, much as he had back at the lab in Saint Barts. 

“That doesn’t even make sense. What does finding fluctuations in the power grid have to do with anything?” John ran a hand down his face in frustration, “and what in the bloody hell is an intermittent alpha wave ionic pulse?” With that, the blond’s head snapped to face Sherlock with his full attention. He stopped, paled, and inhaled a shaky little breath when he saw Sherlock’s thinly slit eyes on him. “That--that, wasn’t… I’m not...” 

“John, breathe.” 

“That man,” his breathing began to accelerate, and it was quite obvious that John was just this side of hysterics, “he was just opposite you. He was talking to me.” 

“John, what did he say?” Sherlock examined his friend. Nothing was veiled from the green penetrative gaze of those bright eyes. “Think, remember. What was said?” 

It took a few moments for the question to fully sink in, and for a moment John did wonder when he’d fallen down the rabbit hole into wonderland. John shook his head. “It’s insane.” 

“What was said?” Sherlock repeated himself. 

“It didn’t-- doesn’t make sense. It was something about the only way to isolate a leaper is in a alpha wave field...and that takes a lot of power. I think.” John hesitated, knowing that this sounded completely insane. He didn’t even know what a _leaper_ was supposed to be, much less the wave stuff. 

\-------------------- 

Books spread across the bolted down coffee table, and a couple closed on the floor, Sam sat curled up on the sofa. The blanket that had previously been carelessly tossed over the back of the sofa was now strewn across the man’s lap, keeping him comfortably warm. He’d checked on the channels the little digital box provided, and now had some documentary playing as background noise. 

Never before had Sam been more pleased to see a set of jeans as he had when he’d run across the pair, he was currently sporting, folded up and tucked away with the rest of the clothes in the bedroom. The fact that all the clothes being provided were gender-neutral wasn’t lost on Sam. It had taken another full walk-through of the space provided for Sam to realized something else about his surroundings. There were no reflective surfaces. No mirrors. Nothing. There was nothing to reflect Molly back at him. Sam had debated what kind of influence this might have on him. Normally seeing his host’s reflection helped to remind him that he was acting for someone else’s benefit. So what was _not_ seeing going to do? 

Amongst the cacophony of books on the coffee table sat a bowl of popcorn. Sam absentmindedly would reach over and snag a handful every now and then. A light beer sat on the armrest. Right now Sam’s full attention was focused on the tablet in his hands. Sam didn’t bother to glance up when the door opened and was quickly shut. It wasn’t time for the nurse to come in and check on him, so he figured that the only other person that he’d see on a normal basis was Jim. “Hey,” Sam scrolled through some blueprints that had been loaded up on the small electronic device. 

The nonchalant greeting from Sam made Moriarty smirk. Most of the initial apprehension that the captive physicist had originally exhibited was rapidly disappearing. Which was good, considering the amount of psychotropic medications were being constantly fed into the time traveler. Moriarty noted the light beer near Sam, calculated the alcohol drug interaction and his smirk broadened into a full smile. 

“Please tell me that you haven’t reassembled Lothos.” Now Sam looked up with a smile at Moriarty. “Better yet, please tell me that a magnet has been run over all of Lothos’s drives.” 

“Sounds like someone doesn’t like the Lotherman project.” Moriarty made himself at home in the free seat facing Sam. 

“More than a few of these Lotherman Project blueprints look like they were copied from my own project...early stuff, most likely from Weitzman before he was removed from the project. The rest, make it look like the techs working on it attempted to weaponize the entire system, which would turn the controlling AI aggressive. So, a weaponized time travel project with an aggressive AI, based off my designs, that actively tried to kill me...on three separate occasions.” Sam stretched his legs across the sofa, crossing them at the ankles. “What’s there to not like?” 

“I was hoping to try and get you to help reassemble this project. Which is why I wanted you to have a look at the salvaged blueprints.” Dark, emotionless eyes slowly panned up and down the lythe form currently stretched out on the sofa. 

“Lothos tried to kill me.” Turning so that now he was half leaning off the sofa, Sam picked up one of the books from the floor. His curiosity got the better of him. “How much of Lothos _do_ you have?” 

Moriarty looked into Sam’s eyes, his expression schooled into one of concern. Silently he moved to the sofa, calmly making certain to arrange Sam’s legs across his own lap, wanting to further any contrived connection with the quantum physicist. “Sam. I’m going to be honest. I didn’t come in today to talk about Lothos or the Lotherman Project.” He patted Sam’s shin, it was a move calculated to be construed as supportive and caring. “I was doing a little research, on you.” 

“No.” Sam tried to pull away. He shook his head. Moriarty kept Sam in place. “Please. Don’t. I’m--I’m not told about myself...that’s against--” 

“Sam. I think you should know--” 

Something in Jim’s tone told Sam that this would be the last thing he’d want to hear. “No. Whatever it is, if it’s important, it’ll come back to me on it’s own.” 

“This can’t come back to you.” Internally, Moriarty relished the distress that his little pet physicist was exhibiting. Perhaps if Sam worked out properly, he’d have his own live-in in a similar manner in which Sherlock kept John. The idea had it’s own appeal. “Something that happened last year can’t come back. Sam, I only want to help you...and I really think you should know--” 

“Jim. Please.” 

“Sam. I’m sorry, but, your wife, Donna, died.” Slowly Moriarty allowed his hand to slide ever so slightly up the calf as he rubbed in a soothing motion. 

Sam shook his head while simultaneously tried to hide behind his hands. The man was desperately attempting to stave off tears. “I’m not...I wasn’t married. I was never married. Al would have told--Donna left me. She left me. _Al would have told me._ ” 

\-------------------- 

It had been a panic attack, pure and simple. Sam lay face down on the bed, recovering from the overpowering emotions that had taken control of him only a an hour before. He could feel Jim rubbing his shoulders through the thin shirt, trying to further calm him down. “I’m fine.” Sam lied, he still felt raw and jittery. Last thing he wanted was to be left alone. Especially after Jim had crammed several pills down his throat to kill the attack. Cuddling was currently pretty high on the list of things that Sam wanted to do. 

“Want to talk about it?” The other man’s tone was open and inviting as he kept massaging Sam’s shoulders and moving down to the back muscles. 

“No.” Sam carefully moved, as to not disturb the massage, so that he could at least partially face Jim. 

Moriarty kept kneading at the tightly knotted muscles. From the expression on Sam’s face, he knew how touch-oriented the time traveler was, and calculated how much of a torment the isolation must be. “But you should,” Moriarty gently goaded. “You’ll feel better if you do.” 

With a sigh, Sam studied Jim’s expression. “I should...but…” Reluctantly, Sam continued. “Can’t.” 

“Can’t? Sam, now you’ll have to explain why you can’t.” 

Another sigh. “Donna. What I remember, and what happened...those are very different things.” Sam allowed his eyes to slide shut as he enjoyed the backrub. He really could get used to being cared for like this. After the jarring panic attack, this was a very welcome experience. “I was nuts about her. God, she was beautiful, smart and her specialty was Quantum Physics. She was brought in to work at Starbright.” A smile spread across Sam’s features as he relished the memory with a chuckle. “I was shy, and tried to hide in my office from her. Al wasn’t having any of that...hauled my ass out, dragged the two of us down to a bar and dumped Donna and me in a booth with a pitcher of beer and a bucket of hot wings--and that’s how it started. 

“I remember being completely in love with her…” A small pained sound slipped from Sam’s lips as a particularly tough knot was worked out of his back. “Then I remember proposing, and Donna accepting. Planning the wedding.” 

“And the two of you got married and lived almost happily ever after.” This fairy-tale happy story wasn’t what Moriarty had expected, nor wanted. That was boring. Possibly the sort of thing that would trigger a panic attack, but still oh so boring. 

“Not quite. That might be what happened, but that isn’t what’s still in my memories. I remember a very different wedding. Donna wasn’t there. She left me at the altar. I never saw her again. I loved her so much, but she left. So, I don’t have any memories of being married. 

“I’m not sure if losing her like this is better or worse. The fact that Al never told me about Donna, us being married or her accident...that...hurts.” 

“I’m so sorry, Sam.” Allowing his hands rest on the newly relaxed back, Moriarty fanned the seeds of resentment he heard in that emotionally drained voice. “Something like that should _never_ have been withheld from you.” He gave one of those shoulders a light squeeze. “Not sure if it means anything, but, if I run across anything that I think you should know...you’ll be the first to know.” 

“Thanks...” Sam’s voice was soft as he mulled over what Jim was telling him. “I think.” 

\-------------------- 

The amitriptyline was deceptively easy to slip into John’s tea. Al watched in disgust as Sherlock stirred the remnants of the opened capsule in the blond’s cup of hot tea, and then proceeded to further disguise the chemical with a bit of cream. 

“Doc, you don’t want to drink that,” the hologram warned as Sherlock put the cup and saucer into John’s hands. “That nozzle is up to something, an’ I don’t like it!” Al stepped around the chair where John was seated, unhappy with the knowledge that neither men in the room could see or hear him. 

John smiled and nodded at Sherlock as he unknowingly accepted a drugged drink. “Uhm, what’s this for?” 

“Oh, no reason.” 

“Wait, you always have a reason.” John suspiciously inquired. 

Sherlock frowned at the unwanted deductive reasoning from John. “You seemed quite agitated, and I thought that a nice cup of tea would make you feel better.” 

That answer didn’t quite seem to satisfy the blond’s apprehension. A thoughtful Sherlock wasn’t always the safest sign, and could on occasion be a danger to others. Still, he took a sip of the warm beverage. It was, after all, a drink that Sherlock had taken it upon himself to prepare. “Do--do we still have any of the biscuits that Mrs. Hudson left here the other day?” 

A little too excited, Sherlock nearly leapt up and bounded into the kitchen. He searched the cupboards for a few moments before giving up. “MRS. HUDSON!” Sherlock shouted in the general direction of the door, as per his usual behavior, before disappearing through there, presumably to go down and acquire said biscuits. John frowned slightly and sipped his tea again. Sherlock’s new overly-helpful nature wasn’t something he’d expected, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether this was something to be welcomed or feared. Within moments Sherlock had reappeared with the biscuits. 

“Biscuits!” Sherlock announced as he waved a plate of them in front of John before dropping them on the table nearest his flatmate. Without preamble, Sherlock snagged two from the plate himself. 

Al watched the spectacle. “Well, Doc, at least those damn cookies aren’t drugged. Be thankful that your friggin’ nutso pal there is eating something solid. What the hell is it with crazy geniuses and food? Well, food that isn’t total crap. Sam was always snacking on junk food. How in the hell he never keeled over from that crap. I can’t tell you how often I’d have to drag his ass out to a cafe just to make sure he ate something a little more substantial than that damn bag of popcorn while that idiot was being distracted by whatever project he was working on.” The hologram shook his head and all but stomped over to where Sherlock was perched on the sofa watching John like a hawk and nibbling on a cookie. “I hope, kid, that you’re getting hazard pay for looking after this joker.” 

“Uhm,” John picked up one of the biscuits, then dunked it in the tea before consuming it. “Thank you?” 

“No, no, no...you’re welcome.” Sherlock attempted to wave the blond’s concern off. “Drink up. You need to relax.” 

“What you need,” Al quipped as he off-handedly waved a stogie in Sherlock’s direction, “is a friend that doesn’t make it a habit of drugging you.” Within the next ten minutes, John was about ready to fall out of his seat. His tea, for the most part, had been finished. The warm brown tones in John’s eyes had over-taken the blue as the blond relaxed under the effects of the drug that Sherlock had introduced into his system. 

“Wha’dya mean...druggin’ me?” John managed to slur out. “Sherl’ck, wha’ wuz in tha’tea?” 

Al sighed. “Yo-yo boy here,” the hologram waved the cigar again at Sherlock, “just dosed you with amitriptyline. If you were suffering from allergies, expect that to clear up like a bell.” 

“Yo-yo? Wait...if it’s supposed t’clear allergies, why--why can’t’ I...no cigar smell?” John’s head nearly fell from where it was perched on his hands. Over on the sofa, Sherlock mouthed the word ‘yo-yo’ in confusion, wondering what connection the little toy might have had with anything. 

Sherlock finally gave in and asked. “Yo-yo?” 

Bleary eyed, John glanced over at his friend. “He,” the sleepy blond pointed as best he could at Al, who moved when pointed at and John did his best to follow the hologram as it walked around the room. John gave a wide mouthed yawn, “call’d you yo-yo boy.” Another yawn. “why’re...trans’prnt…” 

Sherlock all but beamed, but quickly regained his composure as he visually followed the erratic path that John was pointing out. He was right, there was someone bothering John. “Whomever you are, I do not take lightly the fact that you are causing John distress. Leave him alone.” 

The hologram didn’t bother to respond to the rather unimpressive order. Instead, Al rolled his eyes. “Doc, officially, coat-boy over there doesn’t have security clearance. You’re in no shape to sit here blathering everything I say back at that nozzle like a damn parrot. It was a bitch and a half to push your name through and get a security clearance attached to it...only reason you made it through is because you were personally recommended by the big kahuna.” 

“Big kahu-na?” John sipped the remainder of the tea. 

“John, what was that?” Sherlock was strongly displeased about NOT being an active part of this conversation, even though he’d been the one to force the confrontation of sorts. 

John settled more comfortably into his seat. “He said...you’don have sec’rity clear’nce.” 

Sherlock seethed, not entirely silently. “And you do?” His vibrant green eyes slit in annoyance when the response received was a sleepy nod from his flatmate. “How.” If there was something that would shut John up, it would be related to security and most anything military. Damn. 

“Pers’nally rec’mend’d by the big kahu-na.” 

“You tell ‘im, kiddo. Now have tha’ bum help you up to bed.” Al took a puff on his cigar. “After all, it’s _Mister I’ve-only-got-a-music-degree’s_ fault you’re so messed up right now.” 

“Wait...whua…” John aimed a slow-motion startled look at Sherlock. “Musi’c de’gree? Only?” 

“I don’t see how--” 

“Associate’s degree. Seriously, that thing ain’t even a BA.” With a smirk that spread from ear to ear, Al spoke over what the consulting detective had to say. “Now bed.” 

The startled look on John’s face deepened into horror. “Ass’ciate de’gree...wh’t tha’ h’ll Sher’lock…” 

\-------------------- 

Waking wasn’t so much the problem. The problem was that John was trying to figure out what course of events would have had to have occurred for him to wake up tucked in bed while wearing only his shirt, jumper and socks. John sat up in bed. He remembered drinking some tea and eating biscuits with Sherlock; then there was something vague about someone all but ordering him to bed. He thought on that a little more, and hazily recalled Sherlock helping to haul him up the stairs to his room. John was pretty certain that at that point he’d still been completely dressed. 

So, when the hell did his trousers and briefs disappear? 

Mentally preparing himself for whatever the day would bring, John readied himself to get up, and put something on the lower half of his body. It was as he put his feet on the floor that John saw his briefs AND trousers, neatly folded up on the floor near his bed. He felt like screaming. Their being folded in that manner was such a Sherlock thing to do, it was precise but not up to par with military folding. Reaching up, John attempted to run a hand through his hair, only to find that it was horribly mussed. 

What the hell was in that _tea_? 

The next obvious question was...did...he...and Sherlock?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, in all honesty this chapter would not be THIS FRIGGIN AWESOME if it wasn't for Lunarennui. 
> 
> I also am now officially ignoring season three of Sherlock. In the second ep his degree is stated (Graduate Chemistry), up until now, it hadn't been said exactly WHAT he studied just that he studied at the Univ. My boyfriend, Lunarennui and I spent a LOT of time thinking and talking about WHAT the degree was. With his personality and interests, a music degree seemed like an appropriate yet amusing choice. It makes sense, yet with Sherlock's blatant disregard for authority figures it would be something he could do quickly and then get OUT of such an institutionalized environment. The professors probably hated him. <3


	10. The Planted Weed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's coming down to the wire and for Sam's sake, Al is getting a little desperate to communicate with John! Looks like someone has to do a few old tricks to start getting the effect that he wants. Now if only Moriarty would be a little less interested in Sam, but if wishes were fishes we’d all cast nets.

Chapter 10.

**_The Planted Weed._**

So, Sherlock was constantly casting furtive glances at him when he thought John wasn’t looking. John wasn’t quite certain what to make of that. Then again, he wasn’t sure what to make of having woken up without his pants or trousers. He also didn’t know how to broach the subject with Sherlock. Walking up to a person and flat out asking if they’d had sex wasn’t exactly the sort of thing that John did, ever. He tended to like to think that he’d remember something of that nature. Still, the side-glances he was getting from Sherlock were beginning to wear on his nerves. Unfortunately with Sherlock, those side-glances could mean any number of things. 

Off to his left John saw some movement just out of the corner of his eye. There was a large rectangular bit of light, about the size of a door, that appeared and then slid out of just just as quickly as it appeared. The sound that accompanied the light was what drew John’s attention more than anything else. It was an electrical sounding sort of slide that ended with a sharp but very solid sounding ‘shnk’. John did his best to ignore it, and wondered if he should set up an appointment with a psychiatrist. What would he say, I think I’m going mad and might have slept with my flatmate who is most likely asexual and insane? 

John watched Sherlock for a moment. It wasn’t that Sherlock was bad looking for a bloke, far from it. He’d just never thought at out him in that way before. Damn it. Why in the bloody hell did his ass of a flatmate have to be the most thoughtless yet oddly sensually built creature? Honestly, the man was nothing but long, lanky limbs and moved like a damn dancer when the whim hit him. John scowled. Okay, he was _not_ thinking about sex and Sherlock. Nope. Not Sherlock, not with those chiseled cheekbones that the bastard always managed to emphasize when he turned that damned coat up to look cool. Bloody git. 

Breaking from the unwanted reverie, John turned his attention to the other person in the living room; DI Lestrade. Lestrade and Sherlock were trying to figure out what sort connection the bomber had with the woman from Cornwall, that chap that had been kidnapped from London, Carl Powers, Janus Cars and now the dead fashion celeb, Connie Prince. The wall behind the sofa was covered in newspaper clippings and other such paraphernalia concerning the rash of bombings, or at least bombing threats. John didn’t want to know why Sherlock had decided to keep a newspaper clipping of the Carl Powers story from 1989. Pins and string visually connect several of the more relevant bits of information. 

“Connection, connection, connection.” Sherlock’s brilliant green eyes sped across the glut of information that he’d tacked up on the wall. The man was starting to get a little frustrated at all the mysteries that were being thrown at him simultaneously. “There _must_ be a connection.” 

Sherlock stopped. John wasn’t certain whether it was just to create a dramatic pause or whether it really was Sherlock stopping for a second to gather his thoughts. The detective swept his hand emphatically across the wall to point out what he considered important. “Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The bomber _knew_ him; admitted that he knew him.” Sherlock nearly pouted at that admission. Both he and John had gone over the Carl Powers case, and no one was standing out at a likely candidate as their bomber. “The bomber’s iPhone was in stationary from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall; the second from London; the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What’s he doing--working his way around the world? Showing off?” 

John didn’t feel like being overly obvious. Sherlock himself tended to show off more often than not. Then again, Sherlock didn’t have to show off to be noticed; not with those looks and brains. Lestrade shared a look with John that spoke volumes on how both men were currently in perfect agreement. 

The pink phone rang. Within seconds Sherlock had it out and answered the _blocked_ number. No one had to ask, it was their not so friendly bomber, or at least the borrowed Yorkshire voice of the bomber. By now it was better to assume that this voice also had several pounds of explosives attached to it ready to be activated. Thankfully, Sherlock answered the mobile and set it to speaker which allowed the other two men in the room to also be privy to the conversation. 

On the other end of the phone, the little old woman sounded frail as she sobbed through the narration she was being forced to relay. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” The woman barely managed to choke back a scared whimper. “Joining the--dots.” 

Sherlock held his breath, and distanced himself from his emotions, hardening his heart as the woman was allowed the barest of heaving breaths. Her terror palpable through the phone. Finally the old woman had scraped the barest amount of composure together to finish with her ghastly message. “Three hours; boom--boom.” 

While it would come as a surprise to most everyone, this wasn’t enjoyment. The thrill of the chase, now _that_ was enjoyment. Not the needless torment of a little old woman. Honestly, what good did it do to threaten someone like that? He’d have investigated these little mysteries for the fun of it. Tormenting someone completely unrelated to the incident was a waste of time and resources. Sherlock gave Lestrade a pointed look, switched off the mobile and put it back in his pocket. Steepled fingers just barely brushing against his lips as he concentrated, Sherlock turned his full attention back to the informational mosaic on the wall. 

\-------------------- 

Finally! It had taken long enough to get the idea across that when he said wanted a notebook and pencil, he wasn’t talking about a computer, laptop, tablet or anything else mechanical. What Sam wanted was a good old fashioned notebook with paper and a pencil to write his ideas down. Seated at the counter, Sam happily scrawled ideas into the notebook. It wasn’t anything serious, mostly writing out most anything that trailed into the holes in his memory. If he followed a trail close enough, Sam found, that sometimes the memory would reluctantly come back to him. Again, it was silly, but he’d rationalized that if normal people wrote as an exercise in remembering information, then it wouldn’t hurt to try and fill in his memories. Not that he wrote it down, but remembering that Tina had been the one to program Ziggy’s voice had been more than nice. Behind him, Sam could feel Jim hovering and guessed that the man was interested in the whys and wherefores about the notebook.. 

“Look, I don’t have a problem with the tablet. The table is fine and dandy. I just want…” Sam let his voice trail off as he futilely gestured in the air. Pencil still in hand, Sam tapped the graphite against the current page to emphasize his point, “it’s just...I’m just more comfortable writing out my ideas like this.” 

Moriarty shook his head. He didn’t fully understand Sam’s desire to do things in an analog manner, but as long as Sam behaved and did as he wanted, he wasn’t going to deny the quantum physicist something as easy to procure as that pathetic notepad. “It just makes you that much cuter.” Thoroughly amused by the blush the paltry compliment received, Moriarty stepped up behind Sam and rubbed his back, hands lingering by the small of Sam’s back. “I could get you most any computer system requested, and you want paper and pencil. Care to share why?” 

“You’ll laugh.” Sam closed the notebook then spun the seat he was in around so that he could face Jim, not bothering to complain about Jim’s hands on his waist. When he turned, Jim’s hold turned into a loose embrace. Again, he didn’t complain since it did feel comforting, and simple non-threatening situations like this were few and far between in his experience. As much as Sam hated to admit it, Jim rapidly was becoming a calming presence. He chalked the sentiment up to Molly’s neurons. 

“I won’t laugh,” Moriarty assured Sam. For a moment Moriarty wished he could see though Molly’s image and see more than Sam’s earnest green eyes peeking back at him. It was easy to make the mistake and underestimate the man that currently looked like a petite brunette. “Promise.” 

“Fine.” Sam sighed and looked into Jim’s eyes, his blush deepening. “When I graduated from MIT in 1971, computers didn’t move from punch cards over to magnetized tape for data storage until the mid 80’s. Which means a good deal of my initial theories were developed over a couple of beers, perhaps a chalkboard, throwing all ideas out longhand, and then bringing everything back together to find what works and what doesn’t. Computers, aside from a calculator to re-check the calculations, never came into the equation. I do my best thinking when I can write it out. 

“Heck, the theory _behind_ quantum leaping was a result of spending a week fishing with an old college professor up at his cabin. We argued the theory out after spending the day on the lake.” 

“I get it. You’re old-school.” Relinquishing one hand from around Sam’s waist, Moriarty reached up and tapped Sam on the tip of his nose. 

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Something like that.” 

“How’s your waist doing?” Without asking permission, Moriarty reached down and swept his hand up Sam’s side, pulling the thin material of his shirt to reveal a set of fresh bandages. Part of him was more than pleased that the blatant intrusion on Sam’s personal space received a startled yelp as a response. “Any tenderness?” Moriarty inquired while carefully running a hand over the stark white bandages. 

\-------------------- 

Two hours had passed, the time for the _bad samaritan_ bomber’s ultimatum was looming close. Too close for John’s comfort. The sight of Sherlock happily stalking into New Scotland Yard, brandishing a rather large folder in Detective Inspector Lestrade’s face, barely made a dent in John’s mood. 

“Raul de Santos is your killer,” Sherlock more than happily announced. “Kenny Prince’s houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn’t tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince--it was botulinum toxin.” The folder was slammed down on the closest desk with a flourish and allowed the Detective Inspector to retrieve it. Sherlock leaned in close to Lestrade as the man picked the folder up. “We’ve been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber’s repeated himself.” 

John stared after Sherlock and Lestrade as they disappeared into Lestrade’s office. The two men continued talking about how Raul de Santos committed the murder via a lethal level botox injection. Hovering just outside the office, John watched them in abject horror; Sherlock knew. Finally he just had to ask--John extended his arm and grabbed Sherlock just enough to get the man’s attention. “Hey, Sherlock. How long?” he inquired. 

“What?” Sherlock looked genuinely surprised, as though he really were confused as to _what_ John was referring to. 

“How long have you known?” Inside his pocket, John’s mobile rang. He chose to ignore it for the time being. 

“Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake.” With that, Sherlock tried to shake his flatmate off and return to Lestrade’s office. 

John’s mobile went silent as the call went to voicemail. “No, but Sherl… The hostage...the old woman! She’s been there all this time.” 

Leaning toward John, Sherlock hissed into the blond’s ear. “I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us _twelve_ hours. I solved the case quickly.” Sherlock failed to mention the other three pressing matters. John’s invisible little friend, the kidnapping of the _fake_ Molly, and the disappearance of the real Molly. “That gave me time to get on with other things. Don’t you see? We’re one up on him!” 

Lips pursed together in frustration, John released the tentative hold he had on his friend. He never would understand that man. Sherlock disappeared into Lestrade’s office and opened a laptop, presumably to update the Science of Deduction website to inform their bomber of the case’s solution. The mobile in John’s pocket began ringing again. With an annoyed grunt, John answered, “Hello?” His annoyance turned to surprise when the voice of a child was heard on the other side. 

“Mister John?” The voice sounded young, possibly all of four years old. “Are you John?” 

John paled, was this another layer of the bomber’s mad game? He swallowed hard. “Y-yes?” 

“Al says he’s sorry he scared you at Saint Bart’s, an’ he says don’ let Sherlock answer the pink phone. The blind lady, she’s gonna break the rules,” the child’s voice broke off into a giggle, “she lives upstairs. Stop him before the boom-boom.” 

It was the innocent giggle that chilled John to the bone. 

“Sherlock!” Hand gripped tightly around the mobile, as though it were a life-line, John broke into a run. Bursting into Lestrade’s office, he slammed the pink mobile down and out of Sherlock’s hands before it could be answered. The mobile lay ringing trapped between John’s palm and Lestrade’s desktop. “Sherlock, don’t touch the pink phone...just, don’t.” John was out of breath, he knew that the breathlessness had to be from the sudden adrenaline rush. Panting, he held his own mobile up for the Detective Inspector to take. “Lestrade, can you,” John tried catching his breath, “can you trace this?” 

\-------------------- 

The call on John’s mobile was traced to a landline in an apartment building in Leeds. Records showed that the owner of the apartment the call came from was a single mother with a young daughter. It wasn’t hard to trace the call, since the phone was never hung up. The cab ride over was long, awkward and for the most part silent, Sherlock spending most of the time watching John. There hadn’t been any more unusual responses from the blond as there had been over the past two days. Surely, Sherlock figured that there would have been something...then there was the child’s phone call. 

Neither Sherlock nor John had gone to see the previous victims. This time, because of the even more unusual circumstances, both men were determined for their own reasons to accompany the bomb squad as it raced to the indicated location. 

\-------------------- 

Becky sat on the floor, turning pages of the picture book as her new friend read the story aloud. She wasn’t that large of a child, hair done up in twin-tails that curled at the tips and large brown eyes. Even though she was quite small for her age, Becky knew not to talk to strangers, but an _angel_ was entirely different thing. Since she could happily run straight through the Angel Al, Becky knew that the funnily dressed person _had_ to be an angel. 

The story book was about a puppy trying to find it’s way home. Story-time was much more fun than playing hide-the-phone. Talking to Angel Al’s friend John had been a little fun, but she really didn’t know why the phone had to be hidden. 

Angel Al played lots of fun games, and even sang a few songs for Becky. In return, Becky had drawn the boring pictures that Angel Al wanted to give to his friend John, which Angel Al had assured her was going to come over today. All the pictures were were a bunch of dots and lines. She’d then surprised him by being able to tell him different dinosaur types when he magically made some tiny ones appear. Even though the tiny dinosaurs were a little scary, they were just like Angel Al, and Becky could run right through those as well with a giggle and a squeal. 

At least she’d had fun playing with her new friend before the police appeared and forced Becky and her mother to leave the apartment building for their own safety. Nestled safely within her mother’s arms, Becky kept a tight hold of the boring drawings Angel Al wanted her to give to his friend. 

\-------------------- 

Calling Becky’s attention, Al waved his arms and jumped up and down next to John as soon as the blond man appeared on the scene. “Becky!” Al yelled, then pointed at John. Once he had the kid’s attention, Al calmed back down panting a little. He was getting too damn old for these types of shenanigans. Then again, he was just getting old and the smoking wasn’t helping one damn bit. Al thought about maybe joining a gym, again, but realized that would be a lost cause since he’d never go. The only advantage would be the ability to claim that he had a gym membership. 

In her mother’s arms, the little girl squirmed until she was set down. Once on the ground, Becky took off running with her mother frantically chasing after. As Becky ran, she happily squealed, chanting John’s name over and over again like a strange mantra. “JOHN! JOHN! JOHN!” Arms flailing about like only a child can flail, Becky ducked under the police line and still giggling, charged full throttle at the now very stunned and surprised man. 

Back at the police line, Becky’s mother got caught up as her daughter attached herself to John’s legs. “You’re Mister John!” The child chirped happily up at him. “You’re the Angel’s friend!” 

“Atta girl, Becky.” Al took a puff on his cigar before motioning again to John. “Now, give him the drawings.” 

“The Angel wanted you to have these.” Still clutching his leg, Becky waved the drawings up at John. “I thought they were really boring, so I drew them in pretty colours. He said the colours I picked were really pretty!” 

“Uhm, thank you. And, what would your name be?” Not really knowing what else to do, John reached down, took the drawings and also picked up the child with the intent of taking her back to her now frantic mother. “An Angel told you to do these for me?” He also pointedly ignored Sherlock’s comments on how _angels_ don’t exist. 

“Yeah, and us _Angels_ don’t gotta believe in yo-yo’s like Sherlock. So don’t you listen to anything that meanie has to say.” 

“My name’s Becky. An’ the Angel says that I don’t have to listen to Sherlick because he’s mean.” 

Al grinned. “But, ya gotta listen to John. He’s a nice guy, a doctor _and_ he’s my friend. So you know you can trust him.” 

Becky nodded enthusiastically. “Okay.” She squirmed around so that now she was clutching John’s neck. “The Angel says that I should listen to _you_.” 

“Wonderful, John, your new little friend seems to be a delusional schizophrenic.” 

“Girls, please.” John smirked, amused with the childish antics of his flatmate. “This Angel told you to make these pictures for me?” Balancing the girl on one side, John finally took a look at the so-called ‘drawings’ that the _angel_ had apparently instructed her to make. There were a few pages covered with dashes and dots drawn in varying crayon colors. Morse code. John shared a look with Sherlock before returning his attention to Becky. “An _Angel_ told you to make these for me?” 

“You said Mister John was your friend.” Becky accused the hologram standing near them that only she could currently see. “He isn’t acting like he knows you.” 

“Well,” Al stammered, thinking up a quick lie, “because...I’m an angel, I know _who_ is _going to be_ my friend, and already think of them AS my friend. Which is what happened with John here. Except, he doesn’t know I’m here yet. I’ve tried talking to him, but he can’t quite hear me right now.” 

Sherlock watched the child as she seemed to converse with thin air. This was much too much like what had happened with John. If there was one thing that Sherlock didn’t believe in, it was coincidences. “If you aren’t delusional or psychotic, why can you and no one else see this... _angel_ ,” the man nearly sneered at the last word, “not that anyone of reasonable intelligence would believe in such things.” 

“Sherlock?” the question from John was nearly inaudible. There were things which were bizarre, and then there were things which were insane; and right now this conversation was quickly taking a turn towards the insane side of the scale. 

Knowing full well that the consulting detective would NOT like the answer, Al’s grin spread from ear to ear. “Just tell ‘im that it’s magic.” In his hands, the brightly colored handlink started chirping loudly. “Sorry kid, I gotta go, official _Angel_ business.” Al gave Becky a warm smile as he pushed the button to open the Imaging Chamber door. “Thanks for the help.” 

\-------------------- 

The translation of Becky’s _Angel_ morse code note was a little terrifying with the slight information that it did reveal. 

_I work for a Code One Clearance project, codename Project QL._  
 _Sam is a key member of Project QL._

That first line is what originally made John hesitate to continue translating. Code One Clearance projects were classified as Top Secret and required extensive security clearances from all involved. John himself didn’t have many clearances that he knew of and most of those that he did have, he strongly suspected, were given by Mycroft after the fact to avoid M15 from quietly taking him out. Part of John debated handing the rest of this over to Mycroft, for proper protocol, especially since it involved core personnel from this Project QL. 

_Jim Moriarty befriended Molly to spy on Sherlock._

“Sherlock, I think you should take a look at this.” John called his flatmate over as soon as he translated _that_ name. 

_Project QL made Sam the fake Molly._  
 _Molly is safe and cared for at the project._  
 _Moriarty identified and kidnapped Sam._

_Sam ordered a link with John H Watson if communication was cut._  
 _Moriarty blocked Project QL communication with Sam._  
 _Link with Watson problematic._  
 _Moriarty is dangerous._  
 _Please save Sam._  
 _Take Sam to Mycroft for protection._

Sherlock stared silently at the written translation that John had made. The information was straightforward and simply stated. He rolled what was there over in his mind, processing it momentarily. True, he was currently in a game of sorts with their bad samaritan bomber, but at least this shed light on the issue of Molly. There was also the lure of Moriarty’s name. Not just the name, there was a first name included to make this adversary ever so slightly more human; Jim Moriarty. 

“Sam, most likely short for Samantha though Samara is also a strong possibility, but Samantha is the more probable, is American. Before you ask me how, at dinner, her dialect marked her as such. The person who wrote the original message in morse is most likely military, it has a high possibility because this is claims to come from a Code One Clearance level project. Not many people bother to learn morse code nowadays, which lends credulance to the military background.” Sherlock spun on his heel and flopped down in his normal seat, translation still in hand. 

Tapping the page, Sherlock continued. “The initial impersonal nature of the message would imply nothing more than a working relationship, but at the end a plea is issued; _“Please save Sam”_. Little Samantha needs not just to be saved but _protected_ as well. Becky’s friendly _Angel_ is more than just a friend, he’s Sam’s lover. The only emotion in the entire message was that one ‘please’, the message would have been the same without it; so why go through the effort of putting it there? The answer is simple, Becky’s _Angel_ is in love. 

“Why request that Samantha be taken to Mycroft specifically for protection? Just to save her from Moriarty? No, no, no. She needs to be protected from the project she’s working on. She was _‘made’_ into Molly, which means this wasn’t a choice on her part, this was forced. Good possibility that this is a trial run, why else choose to replace someone as unimportant as Molly? This project looks like it was created with espionage in mind. There’s no other reason to create such an elaborate framework to allow a single person to nearly flawlessly impersonate another.”


	11. Toby’s Return.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's cat makes an amazing re-appearance! Yes, the cat came back. ^.~

Chapter 11.

_**Toby’s Return.**_

Returning memories triggered a second panic attack. For once Sam was grateful that he was being monitored so closely, since Jim had appeared on the scene quickly. Just like the previous attack, Jim made sure that the proper medications were taken, then stayed around to observe the effects and ensure that Sam was safe and recuperating. 

As Jim held him, Sam talked about the bits and snippets that he could remember, useless memories, ghosts of a time-line that no longer existed. He told Jim about how badly his older brother’s death in Vietnam had affected the entire family. How his father withdrew emotionally and eventually lost the farm to the bank. About his little sister, Katie, who eloped with a man named Chuck who turned out to be an abusive alcoholic, who regularly beat her. 

For years Sam had stopped going to family gatherings because he couldn’t bear to look at his kid sister, her nearly lifeless eyes and the bruises she carried. They were the type of bruises that every abused woman wore after they _fell down the stairs_ or _accidentally walked into a door_. Not being able to protect his baby sister, Sam had never felt more powerless in his life. 

Nestling further into the comfort that Jim offered, Sam continued talking as Jim gently smoothed his hair. He spoke about the time he played piano at Carnegie Hall when he was 18. About the internship while getting his medical degree. Sam kept to _safe_ topics, never once saying a word about any of the projects he’d worked on like Starbright or Quantum Leap. 

Sam was more than delighted when Jim decided to show him googlemaps and let him see nearly first-hand evidence that the Beckett farm still existed along with several other farms that Sam remembered as having been destroyed for the sake of a stripmall. Sitting with Jim, they both did a little research, and several of Sam’s concerns were laid to rest about his family. His sister was living in Hawaii with their mother. Katie’s medical history was clear of the abuses that Sam remembered. Tom, Sam’s older brother who had died in the war, was the one running the farm. A smile was brought to Sam’s face when he read about Tom’s two kids… his new niece and nephew. 

“Better now?” _affectionately_ , Moriarty ruffled Sam’s hair. 

Sam nodded. “Much.” The man tucked further into Jim’s side. “I needed...to see that they were doing better.” 

Studying the moods of the person at his side, Moriarty set the tablet down. It didn’t matter if Sam got his hands on this particular tablet; the wi-fi signal in this particular section of the compound was so highly regulated that unless one had the correct password, Sam would never be able to get any sort of useful message out. “Thinking of a family reunion any time soon?” 

“No. They’re my family, and I still love them, but right now...they might as well be strangers. I wouldn’t know what to say to any of them,” Sam sighed, relaxed at last. “Technically, I’m the stranger. My memories don’t mesh with their lives. The _Sam_ they know and remember would be a happier person, with radically different life-experiences. Last thing any of them need is me to turn up spinning wild yarns about time travel. It’s probably best if I stay away. 

“But...thanks for listening to me complain.” The beleaguered time traveler curled up next to the person he believed to be his friend. Sam was tired, head spinning, his emotions raw and painful. It seemed that staying in one leap for so long was returning his memories, and these memories weren’t returning peacefully in the slightest. “It’s been a while since someone…” _other than Al_ “...has listened.” 

Moriarty continued watching Sam for a few more moments. It was almost like watching a kitten snuggle. Yes, he could definitely see the appeal of having a live-in the way Sherlock kept John. He just had to make certain that the chemical leash he was attaching to Sam Beckett was good and secure. “Sam,” he said, “I’ve got an idea that might _really_ help to raise your spirits.” His face was out of view as he smiled just a little too sweetly. The game with Sherlock ended tonight, and Moriarty was eager to start implementing a fun new diversion to keep the ever-looming beast of boredom at bay. And who didn’t like a little chocolate with their dessert? Sweet, bitter, or fiery...spice added to any dish made it just that perfect touch more savory. 

Eventually, Moriarty swore to himself, he’d break through Molly’s appearance on Sam and see the man hidden beneath the woman’s pleasant, though rather common, looks. The unshielded light behind those flashes of green, green eyes as he _thought_. That light was intoxicating, and how Moriarty longed to see the truth that was currently hidden from him. He’d seen photos of what Sam Beckett looked like, and wondered whether or not that man had aged physically, as he should have over the decade of time travel, or whether the body had reverted to the one he’d walked into the machine wearing...whether the constant stress and learning had etched new lines into his face, whether his eyes carried a burden of knowledge and sorrow, or were as innocent as this drugged version seemed to be. Moriarty always got what he wanted, one way or another, and he’d own Sam Beckett, body, mind and soul…first as Molly, and eventually without Molly’s unassuming exterior that ‘time’ saw fit to saddle such a brilliant mind with. 

\-------------------- 

The sun had barely peeked over the buildings as it rose. John, none too happy about having been woken at such an ungodly hour, stared down at the well-fed but somewhat dirty cat sitting at the door to 221B Baker St. The only reason he opened the door was to _stop_ the cat from meowing and scratching at said door. It had already managed to put several long gouges in the frame as it was. He wasn’t sure why at one point it had sounded like the cat had been doing backflips off the door. A little voice in the back of his mind, that now constantly spoke with a gravely voice, said that the cat HAD been doing flips off the door while trying to catch a laser. 

With an annoyed sigh, John noticed the collar, and was somewhat relieved to see that this particular fat cat had a heart-shaped identification tag. Toby, it read on the front. On the back it had in impersonal print Molly’s phone number and home address. Bloody hell. It was Molly’s cat. Why in the world would Molly’s cat turn up on HIS doorstep doing bloody circus tricks?! John sighed again, and called out to Mrs. Hudson, “We’ve got a cat!” 

From downstairs the landlady poked her head out of her flat with a curious look. “Oh! That’s lovely. Make sure it doesn’t scratch the doors.” 

A little surprised that the woman was even awake at this early hour, John glanced in the direction of the stairs before scratching at the cat’s neck. The long scratches on the door were given a second glance. Too late. Opening the door further, John let the ginger tabby into the flat. “Well, Toby, make yourself at home...just don’t--” He was _about_ to say don’t jump on Sherlock’s chair, which was of course exactly what the cat made a beeline for. Even cats had it in for him. 

As cats are known to do, Toby shed dirty fur quite immediately all over the chair. John ran a hand through his hair, scratching the back of his head while trying to figure out what he was now supposed to do. It wasn’t as though this were normal territory for him. Deciding on a plan of action, since that is exactly what he NEEDED right now, John scooped Toby up and left the flat. Bounding down the stairs, he headed straight for Mrs. Hudson. Right now the safety of Toby wasn’t quite assured, and being with Mrs. Hudson might prove the best place at the moment. “Mrs. Hudson, mind keeping an eye on this one while I go and pick up some things for him at the petshop?” 

The elderly woman cooed over the ginger kitty, which seemed all but too happy to curl into a warm ball of slightly scruffy fur in Mrs. Hudson’s lap. “Isn’t he a darling!” 

“Yeah,” John agreed, not entirely certain about the veracity of his words. “Just, just make sure that Sherlock doesn’t touch him...or feed him anything. Better yet, I don’t want Sherlock anywhere around this cat till I’ve had a chance to warn him.” For a moment John wondered exactly WHO he was warning, Sherlock, or the cat. 

Something told John that it was going to be one hell of a day. 

\-------------------- 

He would have collapsed to the floor in relief if doing so wouldn’t have been so problematic to get back up from, after all, 60 year old knees weren’t always happy to work exactly the way they were supposed to. Al pocketed the laser pointer that he’d used to finally _finish_ luring Toby to John. Damn cat. Taking that stupid thing through the back alleys had been a pain in the ass. It wasn’t even that intelligent of a cat, and accidentally nearly got itself trapped in a drainpipe. 

If Sam hadn’t been taking care of the cat, Al wouldn’t have bothered with getting it to a safe place. Well, safe was a relative term, especially when someone like Sherlock was involved. Al knew that Sam would be upset if anything happened to Molly’s cat since technically he was supposed to be caring for it, and would still feel horribly guilty even though there was nothing to be done. 

Instead, Al breathed a sigh of relief as he watched John more or less ‘adopt’ Toby the wonder cat. It’s a wonder it hasn’t gotten itself killed yet, he thought. No surprise that this dope of a cat was kept indoors.


	12. The Final Game.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The games are winding to a close, and it seems that danger still lurks. Is it possible for Sherlock and John to save Sam? Though, the better question is, would Sam allow himself to be saved even if the opportunity arose.

Chapter 12.

**_The Final Game._**

Al paced back and forth, watching as Sherlock examined the painting hanging there at the Hickman Gallery.  A supposed lost find from the old Master Verneer;   _supposed_ in that it was a fake.  Very obviously, clearly a fake, this Al knew because the first time that the 30th of March 2011 rolled around, the consulting detective figured it out on his own. 

Sherlock absentmindedly brushed cat hair off of his cloak as he focused on the flecks of paint.  He _knew_ that this was a fake, someone had died because of this painting. Sherlock also wondered, as he ran through as much data as possible, how he’d be able to get that damn cat away from Mrs. Hudson so he could take it to a shelter where it deserved to be for so wantonly shedding on _his chair_.  Over the phone, a child’s voice drew his thoughts back to the painting in front of him.  Damn, _how_ was it a fake?  Sherlock turned to Miss Wenceslas. “This kid will die.   _Tell_ me why the painting is a fake?   _TELL ME_!” 

For a moment it looked as though Miss Wenceslas was about to answer Sherlock.  Al perked up, watched the interaction between the two of them before returning to John’s side.  “It’s the Van Buren Supernova,” Al flatly stated, even though he knew very well that talking to John right now was about as useful as talking to the ocean.  Using the laser pointer to coax that stupid cat to Sherlock’s apartment had been more effective than chatting at John lately. Smugly Al remembered Toby shedding up a storm in Sherlock’s chair...after he had actively _led_ the cat into the seat with the same laser pointer. That, Al concluded, was probably one of the smartest things that Toby had done...writhing out of the drainpipe had been coincidental, and was mainly due to a haphazard pigeon explosion nearby. “Exploding star, that puppy only became visible in about eighteen fifty-eight.  Only an absolute moron would be dumb enough to paint that in a night sky supposedly painted in the 1640s, knucklehead.  My third….or was it my fourth wife, painted for a while, and even _she_ woulda known better.”  Al thought on that a moment longer.  “Maybe it was Tina?” 

The child’s uncertain and wavering voice hung in the air, chilling as fear wove through the sound.  “Seven…” 

“No, shut up.” Sherlock waved Miss Wenceslas away in agitation.  Though, one could assume that he didn’t want the IQ level around him to plummet.  “Don’t say anything.  It only works if I figure it out.”  Not surprisingly, Sherlock returned to what he didn’t even realize his subconscious mind recognized as his touchstone for stability, and passed close to John. Sherlock’s piercingly bright green eyes lit on John as he took a break from the turmoil that existed inside his head, Sherlock needed clarity, and that’s what John brought him. He needed to clear his mind and focus. John believed in him, and that underlying thought made Sherlock secure in his deductions. He was always right, but at least John gave him a _reason_ to be right which was beyond the simple satisfaction of completing a complex puzzle...or making a fool of his brother, Mycroft. 

“Must be possible.”  The full of Sherlock’s attention was on the painting again.  “Must be staring me in the face.” 

“Six…” 

With the countdown lowering, even John was starting to look concerned. His eyes warmed with the golden tones of anxiety as he crossed his arms.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard that annoying voice again, and tried to ignore it. “Come on,” John murmured in what he hoped to be a consoling tone. 

“It _is_ staring you in the face, bozo.”  Al puffed on his cigar. “Seriously, how in the hell did this guy, the idiot that doesn’t even know that the earth goes around the sun, would know that some friggin supernova that wasn’t supposed to be there… is there?  Someone send the bombsquad to pick up that poor kid’s remains.” 

\-------------------- 

To say that he was suitably impressed was an understatement.  Not that Al was going to openly admit that _coat-boy_ was good.  Then again, being smart only got you so far, being intelligent got you much farther...Sam wouldn’t have taken nearly that long to notice the damned out of place supernova in that painting.  Sam’s doctorate in Astronomy probably would have helped in that department.  Visions of the amazing crime-fighting adventures of Coat-Boy and his fabulous partner Blogger-dude danced through Al’s mind.  He wondered how many times Coat-boy’s tail-coats were actually saved by the blogger?  Al realized that he needed to stop making crap up;  plus, Tina would immediately ask who was lifting who’s tail-coats and that was just something that he _really_ didn’t want to think about. 

Groaning about the weather, even though he couldn’t feel a damn thing in relation to the dreadful London’s usual fog-and-drizzle since he was in the climate controlled Imaging Chamber, Al trudged along behind John as the blogger continued his day.  As they went, Al still did his job, which included chattering about events.  The current one was about the stolen missile plans and the guy that had gotten himself splattered across the train tracks.  The fact that there wasn’t any strawberry jam coating the tracks was suspicious; and Al _knew_ what a suicide-by-train looked like, those things were messy and a pain in the ass to clean up after. Growing up as an orphan, Al had jumped on a train car or two himself, and had unfortunately seen more than his fair share of splattered young-dumb-things that tended to have a serious deficit of common sense.  Thankfully, unlike the vast majority of morons that he’d grown up around, Al had apparently gotten the common sense that they lacked, except when it came to choosing women. 

By the time Al was finished ‘briefing’ John, not that it was helping anything, on the situation regarding the location of the stolen missile plans, he’d started talking about his ex-wives. The story about how his fourth ex-wife wanted to be in the roller-derby was always a good one. Too bad she kept falling on her tooshie every time she tried out...then after that, how ice-skating wasn’t nearly exciting enough for her.  Al missed seeing that woman in those itty-bitty shorts that covered almost nothing. The ice-skating outfit had also been one hell of a kick-in-the-butt. 

Oh, hey, Coat-boy is here.  Al smirked as Sherlock strolled up alongside the tracks.  Seemed like it was just about time for this gig to be up.  It wouldn’t take much longer to retrieve the plans and solve the murder.  All in a day’s work for Coat-boy and Blogger-dude.  Al punched in the sequence to open the Imaging Chamber’s door. 

\-------------------- 

The lapel on his jacket was smoothed down as Sam fussed.  Sam wouldn’t say that he was overly keen on leaving the apartment where he’d been kept these past couple of days. That apartment was where he felt safe, for a change.  The apartment meant that he wasn’t going to be forced to leap again, tucked behind the security of the fluctuating field.  Still, Jim had all but insisted that he come out with him. Sam looked down at himself.  He wasn’t much for suits, never had been; they always reminded him of funerals or grant appeals.  “What about a nehru jacket?”  He hoped that was an option, since it felt a little less formal than what Jim had selected out for him.  Close-fitted charcoal satin button-up which from what Sam could tell, was snug in all the right places without being overly tight or restrictive, black slacks…still all very neutral in their cut, which suited Sam just fine since they felt great.  A little voice in the back of Sam’s head pointed out how expensive this outfit must be.  However, depending on what the environmental temperature was like and given half a chance, he would try to ditch the jacket. 

“Sorry, Sammy,” Jim nearly sang as he guided Sam down the hallway away from the place Sam knew to be safe.  “I’ll make sure that next time you’re in nehru.”  Still smirking, Moriarty settled a soft ivory cream cashmere scarf around Sam’s neck, carefully adjusting the soft shirt collar so that it lay neatly. 

With a clear and stern gaze leveled on Moriarty, Sam frowned.  “Don’t. It’s either Sam, or Samuel...never Sammy, only Al and Tom can get away with calling me _Sammy_ , and Tom only gets away with it because he would routinely wallop me if I protested.”  His statement was made without malice.  Sam glanced away, but fingered the edge of the scarf he now wore, a little saddened that it didn’t have fringe or tassels.  The scarf had a nice weight and definitely would keep him warm.  Sam tried hard to not think about the times when as a child on the farm in the winter he would sit bundled up next to the fireplace, book in hand and nose in book;  the gentle clicking of knitting needles would keep him company as his mother, or grandmother when she was still with them, would sit rocking back and forth, as the ball of yarn trying to skitter out of its basket, was knitting something new…  Sweaters, socks, scarves, they were all knitted with love.  The scarf around his neck--Sam’s fingers continued toying with the edges--was machine made and probably several hundred existed exactly like it. 

“Point made, Sam.”  With immense gratification, Moriarty observed the little motions that betrayed Sam’s agitation.  Yes, Sam had been kept docile and accepting with a steady course of psychotropic medications to alter the man’s moods and make him infinitely more pliable.   The drugs had been slipped continuously into Sam’s food and drink.  Even if Sam had consciously _noticed_ the narcotics or their effects, the only way to actively avoid them would be to go on a hunger strike. 

Today Sam’s normal dosage had been altered.  Just because it would amuse him, Moriarty decided that the perfect way to close the Great Game would be to gloat a little and show off his pet physicist.  The irony that Sherlock wouldn’t have the slightest notion that he was in the presence of such a superior, albeit pharmaceutically shackled, mind wasn’t lost on Moriarty. 

The last thing that Moriarty wanted was to _gravely_ damage his pet this early on.  What he wanted was to further prove his ownership.  To that intent, while the dosage given to Sam today was markedly lower than normal, it was calculated to just be low enough to provoke mood swings and potentially increased aggression.  Of course, Moriarty had ensured that Sam’s next dosage would include a mild sedative to completely take the man down when required.  Calculating medications of this nature for a person like Sam was tricky, to say the least. 

As they entered an underground parking garage, Sam glanced around the enclosed space. It was cold and foreboding, their footsteps, and those of the men around them, echoed around them menacingly. “I have a headache.”  It was true, though he didn’t comment on the light tingling which was spreading across his entire body like a light tickling electrical current. The sensation wasn’t all that unpleasant, but it wasn’t something that Sam particularly cared for. 

The only vehicle on this floor of the garage was a particularly spacious stretch limo.  From the layout of the posts and how the sound was echoing, Sam guessed that they were a few levels down. This was something that Al would have cleared up for him immediately, but Al had a long-standing habit of leaving him hanging, Sam thought bitterly.  No windows.  His apartment had windows.  “The windows in my apartment are screens.”  If they were screens, that meant… ”I want to change my scenery.”  Sam tucked his hands into the jacket pockets to warm them.  “Something with a little more sunlight.  I grew up on a farm, I’d like a little more sun instead of getting London beamed at me all the time through those fake windows.  It’s all grey and rainy.  I grew up on a farm in Indiana, I used to enjoy waking up as the sun rose lighting up my room in gold and red.” 

“Oh?”  The randomness of Sam’s statement and query nearly took Moriarty off guard, nearly. “What brought this on?” 

Sam gave Moriarty a look that said in no uncertain tones that he was not an idiot.  Instead Sam decided to spell it out for the gentlemen who were currently guarding their course towards the limo.  “Since leaving the rooms I’ve been staying in, we haven’t traveled up or down, nor have we gone on an incline that would allow for a chance in altitude.  This garage is underground, no windows in here.  Most garages will try to stay as open-air as possible to reduce the possibility of carbon-monoxide poisoning since it’s easier to ventilate the structure if it’s got large open windows.”  Sam pointed at the large vents that they had just passed.  “Instead, there’s ventilation to pump fresh air down here.  The thrum of the motor pumping the air is loud enough to indicate that it’s fairly large and somewhat intricate;  so a good volume of air is being moved through here, that means more than one level.  Unless this complex is built on a really weird hill, my windows are fake. 

“The bluffs in Sedona, Arizona are nice.  Think those would be possible to hook up into the monitors pretending to be windows?” 

Holding back laughter at the almost absurd request, Moriarty draped an arm around Sam’s shoulder.  “You want...Arizona?”  The agility with which Sam’s mind seemed to move, possibly more so because of the current drugged state, never ceased to entice Moriarty.  Right now, Moriarty deduced that he was most likely now specifically seeing what may be Sam’s playful side.  That was an opening that he hadn’t expected to get a chance at after only a few days of having Sam kept isolated. 

“Yes, specifically Sedona, it’s very distinctive.  Red bluffs, blue skies with white fluffy clouds, the whole works.”  Sam grinned.  “Maybe a hawk, or some cute little iguanas sunning themselves on the rocks…” 

With a snicker at the seemingly absurdity of the request.  Honestly, lizards?  Moriarty draped an arm across Sam’s shoulders, he shook his head in an attempt to disguise his silent laughter.  “Red bluffs and fluffy clouds it’ll be.”  It took a few moments for Moriarty’s arm to be shrugged off.  Still, Moriarty took the length of time that he remained holding Sam to be a good sign.  This seemed like a good enough time as any.  From a jacket pocket, Moriarty pulled out a black wristband and slipped it onto Sam’s wrist; allowing his fingers to lightly stroke the soft sensitive skin in a delicate pattern before finally releasing the tentative hold. 

The band wasn't bulky. In fact, if Sam hadn’t watched it being put on, he probably wouldn’t have noticed it very much.  At first glance, it could easily be mistaken for a leather cuff about an inch wide.  There wasn’t anything special or unique to be noticed in that first cursory look. 

Questioningly Sam brought his wrist up to examine the newest addition to his ensemble.   Upon closer scrutiny was when he was able to notice the fine filaments that ran through the item now securely attached to him.  Sam frowned as he slowly started to put together what Jim had put on him, and wasn’t entirely certain whether or not he was happy about it. 

“You can take it off if you want.”  The statement was more of a dare than anything else.  Moriarty opened the door to the limo and patiently waited for Sam’s move.  For a moment Moriarty almost believed that he could see the thoughts racing through Sam’s mind as the physicist examined the cuff. 

“It--it’s using the electricity generated by my body to generate alpha pulses,” Sam turned his wrist over, still following circuitry, and annoyed that his headache was clouding his thoughts, “but, at this size…” 

“It’ll burn out its circuitry in a few hours--” --but not burn out the GPS chip-- “--that will warn and protect you from leaping while outside of this complex.” 

So that was the dare.  Sam stared at the innocuous looking wristband. It wasn’t a question of leaving the complex, it was a question of whether he’d leave wearing a technological leash of Jim’s design.  Was that wrong, to not want to continue existing in fear waiting for an unexpected leap to spirit him off to some potentially horrible new scenario?   Sam exhaled and wondered how much of his soul he was giving up because he wanted to stay in one place for more than two or three days.  When he’d first woken up after pulling on a fermi-suit and stepped into the accelerator, Sam hadn’t even known his own last name...and one of the suggestions that Ziggy had given was to simply wait until he’d caught back up with the project’s timeline.  Would waiting until Quantum Leap had Molly in the Waiting Room be so bad?  Jim had Lothos and apparently all of the relevant data to the Lotherman Project;  and the Lotherman Project had one thing Quantum Leap didn’t, a functioning _retrieval program_. 

It wasn’t the first time that Sam had wanted to stay in a particular person. Though this was the first time that he’d wanted to stay for completely different reasons. Sam could barely recall the time when he’d managed to stay in San Francisco for two weeks with a beautiful female psychic named Tamlyn who had been the only person that had been able to see through the aura of his host. Tamlyn claimed that it was his vacation...even though Sam hadn’t wanted to, he still leapt shortly after saving her life on Valentine’s Day. That was the longest leap that Sam could bring to the forefront of his memories, but he sincerely doubted that there were any others that rivaled those two peaceful weeks. 

Sam drew in breath and turned his eyes towards the limo that Jim was waiting for him to enter of his own volition. Ducking his head, Sam climbed into the vehicle, the technological manacle still securely attached to his wrist.  If he had bothered looking back, he would have seen the smile on Moriarty’s face which would have chilled him through and through, to the very marrow of his bones. 

\-------------------- 

The plan was to go to Sarah’s for the evening, possibly to stay overnight again, or at least that was what John had originally intended to do this evening. After the hellish few days that he’d passed with Sherlock and some nutter trying to blow people up, John figured that he deserved a wee bit of time to relax before jumping back into the fray and attempting to locate the missing Samantha. Instead, the stocky doctor found himself being forcibly hauled off the street and shoved through the open door of a waiting limousine. One night, that was all John had wanted. Just one night. 

Partially sprawled across the floor of the now moving vehicle, John was staring down the barrel of a silencer-equipped gun when he heard Samantha’s enthusiastic exclamation, and shortly after smelled the alcohol. “It’s _John_! I _like_ John, he’s nice.”  From the expressions on the faces on at least two of the other three men in the vehicle, it was obvious that they were attempting to ignore the woman’s overly boisterous and alcohol-fueled nature. The final person, a man in a charcoal suit that matched Samantha’s shirt, was watching the proceedings as though it were all a diversion being performed for his benefit. 

Frozen in place, and not sure how to react, John watched as Samantha’s gaze centered on the weapon. “Jim.  I don’like guns,” the woman pointed an accusatory digit at the weapon in question.  In her other hand, long delicate fingers were clasped around the neck of an almost empty bottle of hard lemonade. John assumed that the person Samantha was addressing was Jim Moriarty, her kidnapper. 

Only partially relieved to see that Samantha was in good health, though inebriated, John kept an eye on her. It certainly didn’t _look_ as though she had been mistreated since her kidnapping. Lamentably, the behaviour that she was demonstrating as she sat next to Moriarty, leaning against that man, screamed Stockholm.  The only positive that John was seeing right now was that Samantha was somewhat safe, while he still had a gun aimed at his face. 

“You don’t?” inquired Moriarty in mock surprise, a sly smile gliding into place on his features as Sam leaned in perilously close. 

“Been shot at tooOo m’ny times’ta like ‘em.”  Sam could feel his own chest pressing against Jim’s side, and Jim’s hand on his upper thigh.  “Y’er guy...shot...me.  S’not fun...I wanna go back.” 

“Tell you what,” Moriarty’s smile broadened amicably, and he placed a chaste kiss on that tender sweet spot just below the jawline.  “The gun goes away as long as Johnny-boy plays nicely.  How’s that?”  The question was punctuated with a second kiss, just as chaste as the first, on Sam’s cheek.  Sam never saw the threat of violence in Moriarty’s eyes as the man gave John a piercing look that promised a grisly and unimaginably painful death should he go against him. 

Beneath his hands, John could feel the movement of the limo as they traveled through the night towards their unknown destination. With teeth tightly clenched in frustration and anger, he glared at the man holding onto Samantha.  John clicked his tongue against his teeth as he opened his mouth to speak and forced a smile in place;  if they wanted him to play _nicely_ then he’d do so till he could figure a safe way to get the poor drunk woman away from that bastard.  “Okay then.”  John was able to breathe a little easier once the gun was put away, though he knew more than well enough that the threat was still there. 

Slipping from Moriarty’s hold, Sam went to John’s side and eased the blond into the seat behind them. Once seated, Sam snuggled in next to the wary man. Across from them, Moriarty gave John another look that proclaimed death if he made even one misstep with the person now next to him. 

“S’rry for lyin b’fore,” completely ignoring the large armed man on the other of John, Sam pulled the blond’s arm around his shoulders into a loose hug to further tuck himself into the man’s side, “ ‘m Sam.” Too-bright eyes studied John’s face.  “I like y’r hugs.” 

“Watch it, _Johnny-boy_ , I might think that you’re trying to steal _Pretty Sammy_ from me.” 

Sam’s expression flattened, and green eyes flashed as he glared at Moriarty. In one swift movement, Sam drained what was left of the bottle in his hand, and then sent it flying at Moriarty. The bottle never made contact;  one of the guards knocked the bottle from it’s trajectory as it sailed across the limo, sending it crashing to the floor where it rolled around uselessly.  The second guard shoved John further back into the seat as he reached across and grabbed Sam by the throat.  Sam clawed at the hand restraining him and gasped for air. 

All it took to resolve the conflict was a raised brow from Moriarty, who never even broke a sweat. “Idiot,”  Moriarty glared, anger seething in his dark eyes, “touch _my_ Sam again, and I _will_ have you skinned alive.”  His expression softening, _Jim_ turned to Sam, “That bad man didn’t hurt you, did he?” 

Now backed into a corner away from John, Sam rubbed at his neck, unaware that two upper buttons on his shirt had been snapped off when he’d been attacked, leaving the shirt open dangerously low enough to reveal some of Molly’s cleavage. “I. Told. You. Is _Sam_ never...Sammy.  O’ly _Tom_ calls me _Sammy_ \-- an’ Al.” The last name was all but pouted out. “But’Al’s got o’er twendy years on’me. An dey o’ly do zat ta make me feel like ah dumb kid.”   

There was an amused snort from Moriarty at that comment.  “Sam, come back away from _Johnny-boy_ and sit next to me.” 

Sam went back to John, immediately tucking himself next to the man again. “But’he gives nice’hugs.” 

Moriarty’s glare at John still spelled murder.  “Yes, but who has made you feel _safe_ , and _doesn’t want_ you to be _anybody_ but _yourself_.” 

With a pout, Sam weighed his options, then noticed the sunroof...and the controls next to it. “Whazzat?!”  He didn’t hesitate.  “Ooo!  Buttons!  Buttons’re fun!”  It only took a few seconds for him to get the right sequence to open the sunroof and find himself standing upright in the limo watching London whiz by. Sam laughed infectiously. “This’iz great!”  He poked his head back down, “Jim, have you’tried dis? Com’up here.” 

Having decided that he’d had enough of Sam’s inebriated antics, Moriarty grabbed the scarf still tucked around Sam’s neck and yanked his rather intoxicated _pet_ back into place. Another open drink was pushed into Sam’s hands and guided up to his mouth. Sam only gave a token struggle but acceded to drinking more, and did settle down somewhat while nursing the new bottle as he sulked next to Jim. 

Still sulking, Sam squirmed around until he was marginally more comfortable, sprawled across the seat.  Back against the wall, Sam stretched his legs out, crossed at the ankles over Moriarty’s lap.  Drink in hand, he began playing with the new _toy_ he’d managed to snag off of John;  a mobile phone.  As he’d said before, buttons were fun;  they were even more fun when they did useful things.  Not that he normally would steal things like this, but he had some questions that his cotton candy-filled head wasn’t able to sort out properly.  Sam wanted someone that his gut told him he could trust.  Right now he had more than a few iffy-feelings about Al, and Jim...was Jim.  Plus, John was being threatened, which meant anything from him was subject to extreme bias.  Problem was, he _wanted_ to keep trusting Jim. 

“Where did you get _that_?”  Moriarty’s tone was scalding as he noticed the mobile in Sam’s hands. 

Sam didn’t bother to even glance up.  Even drunk as he was, he knew that this would piss off Jim.  “His pock’t.”  Using the now half-full bottle of alcoholic lemonade, Sam gestured towards John and completely ignored John’s indignant exclamation when he realized said mobile wasn’t in his top pocket anymore.  “Iz gotta fuuuull slide’out qwerty keyb’rd.”  The keyboard was popped open and shut a few times to illustrate the point, and eventually left open as Sam kept on pushing buttons. Rallying together as many braincells as cared to properly function, Sam frowned at Jim. “Re’lly.  Who tha heck’m I gonna contact?  A broth’r I rememb’r bein’ dead?  M’sist’r, zat marri’d ‘n abus’ve alcohol’c?  M’fam’ly prolly think’s’m dead b’now.  An ev’n if I coul’ cont’ct m’project...they...’re useless. What’ll they’do?  S’rry Sam, yer leapee izzn’t here, can’t give ya back’er aura yet.” 

The phone was flashed back at John;  several dialed numbers could already be seen displayed on the screen.  “Is’a really nice phone.  I’rememb’r tha bricks.  Heavy, bulky…ugly.”  Sam waggled John’s phone once more, then started putting more numbers in. 

John wondered what was up with Samantha snagging the phone like that, and hoped that it was just a drunk action. “You, you do intend to give that back, right, Sam?”  He figured tacking on Samantha’s preferred nickname would make her feel more comfortable listening to him. 

“Of c’rse!”  Sam chirped.  A few more buttons were pushed, and the entire call history was deleted.  “Y’need it.  Catch!”  Effortlessly, Sam tossed the phone in John’s direction, and unfortunately it landed nearly a foot away.  Bouncing on the limo floor, the back fell off and went one direction with the battery flying another, and the mobile unit itself in yet a third.  Sam gave an innocent wide-eyed look at Jim, then at the goon that had grabbed _him_ by the throat, down at the phone parts, and finally back at John before returning to Jim.  Taking another sip from his drink, he smiled around the bottle-top at Moriarty with playful eyes that said _please_. 

“Really?” An exasperated glance was given to Sam before Moriarty waved at the guard next to John to give the remnants of the mobile back. “If you were any less sexy... or brilliant...” 

Sidling up to Moriarty, still sporting that innocent look, Sam gave a sly little smile as he reveled in the compliments.  “An’thing less’an you wouldn’ need me ta rebuild an’ progr’m Lothos.”  Fingers curled around the cream scarf again when Moriarty gently tugged Sam even closer, and used the same hand to the reach up and almost lovingly stroke his cheek before a song that was playing softly on the radio in the background caught Sam’s quicksilver attention span… “ _Rock the Redhead_ , by King’s Thunder? Turn tha’ up!” 

The rest of the ride consisted of a quick and very drunk rendition of said song that at the very least proved Sam had one hell of a set of pipes on him.  It was subsequently followed up by sheer unfiltered stream of consciousness information that didn’t seem to make a lot of sense. Sam spoke of how King Thunder’s lead singer, a man by the stage name of Tonic, had been stabbed to death in 1974 by the band’s manager.  Talking about the band led to Carnegie, specifically how the layout of the entire structure promoted the proper acoustics and even rambling off the fact that the Beatles played the Ed Sullivan Show while a serial killer was strangling women in Central Park;  this was also coincidentally the same time that a blind pianist by the name of Andrew Ross had a set of concerts at Carnegie, the first of which was finished by amusing the audience with an encore of ‘chopsticks’.  Music led to equations, which led to chemistry, which led to... 

\-------------------- 

The limo only slowed marginally as it passed the pool.  John was sent sprawling from a quickly opened door, the impact sending the man to his knees on the hard pavement.  Psychosomatic or not, pain sharply flared up John’s knee;  for a crazy moment John wondered if he’d be reduced to using a cane again.  A heavy coat concealed the plastic explosives that John was forced to wear.  John glanced around nervously as static flickered over the earpiece he’d been fitted with. 

Radio silence broke as orders streamed over the small electrical device.   A small but recognizable dot appeared on John’s chest, clear incentive to follow orders without question or comment.   Out of pure frustration, John closed his eyes, exhaled deeply, then opened his eyes again, stepped into the pool area and stood in the shadows where he was told to go and stay. 

Time seemed to pass at a crawl for John.  Even though only some ten minutes had passed since he’d been forced from the vehicle.  First John felt relief, then fear when he finally heard the door on the opposite side of the indoor pool.  The fear quickly turned to anger when Sherlock’s voice could be heard echoing through the room.   “Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present.  Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it?  All your little puzzles;   making me dance--all to distract me from this?” 

The device in his ear ordered John out of the shadows.  Hands in pockets, John stepped into the light.  John’s eyes narrowed when he saw the small thumbdrive in Sherlock’s hand.  The bloody git was supposed to have given that thing back to Mycroft!   “Evening.”   Oh, how he wanted to tell Sherlock off right now.  Almost equally, John wanted to scream at Sherlock that Moriarty had _Samantha_ here.  Dialogue continued coming in through the earpiece.  “This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock stared at John in complete and utter disbelief of what he was seeing.  For a moment it seemed as if the light in Sherlock’s brilliant eyes died for a second.  “John.  What the hell…?”  Slowly, the hand holding the small thumbdrive lowered as the detective continued staring at his only friend, looking at treason of the worst sort, the most unexpected sort, a _painful_ thing, something that Sherlock never had known could happen.  His heart felt as though it was shattering under the impact of the betrayal. 

Dialogue come in through the earpiece.  “Bet you never saw this coming.”   The look in Sherlock’s eyes made John’s soul wither.  Slowly, John pulled the oversized coat open to reveal the bomb attached to himself.  “What...would you like me...to make him say...next?” 

Repeating the amused dialogue being fed to him, John continued speaking as Sherlock cautiously began to approach him.  “Gottle o’ geer...gottle o’ geer…”  the distaste and frustration nearly broke the blond’s voice, “gottle o’ geer.” 

Sherlock had enough of this farce.  “Stop it!”  Futilely he attempted to order John’s unseen puppeteer.   _No one_ did this to John...and Sherlock was more than a little tired of people taking advantage of _his_ John. 

“Nice touch, this,” John continued, “the pool where little Carl died.  I stopped him,” slate blue eyes cast a veiled look at the pool as John did his best not to cringe as the voice in his earpiece kept going.  “I can stop John Watson too.”  A laser point appeared on John’s chest.  “Stop his heart.” 

Turning on the spot, Sherlock tried to look around to see if he could locate the person or persons currently in control of John.  Failing to do so, the man gritted his teeth.  “Who are you?” 

From the opposite end of the pool, two figures, one male and the other female, stepped just barely into view, obscured by the shadows.  Light flickering off the pool’s water didn’t do anything to help bring the two newcomers into sight.  From what Sherlock could see, the woman was leaning heavily on the man, and giggling softly.  It was the nearly inaudible giggles, which Sherlock recognized as being caused by intoxication, that gave her identity away...Samantha.  She sounded exactly like Molly, but there was a new timbre that he could pick out of her voice that hadn’t been there before.  Samantha was starting to sound quite...distinctly Samantha. 

“I was going to give you my number,” the shadowed man’s voice was deceptively gentle and kind, “but this sweet little thing appeared and distracted me.  Jim,” Moriarty stepped out from the doorway he was ensconced in, and brought Sam with him.  Arm around Sam’s waist, Moriarty smiled amiably at Sherlock and began ushering his visibly drunk companion along as they both strolled to the edge of the pool.  “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket,” the smile turned into a broad smirk as Sherlock brought out the identified weapon, “or are you just pleased to see me?” 

“Both,” Sherlock deadpanned.  His gun aimed at John’s antagonist. 

“Jim Moriarty. Hi!”  He stopped, smirk still firmly in place as he continued to watch Sherlock, completely unafraid, “and my lovely companion is--” 

“Call’me _Sammy_ an’ I _shove_ you’in tha’ pool.” 

“Really, really drunk.”  Jim laughed. 

“An’ in pain...ah should _not_ be out drinkin’...not with’tha pain relievers, antibiotics an’ anti-anxiety medications...ah jus’wanna go to sleep now.”  Still hanging off of Jim, Sam grinned over at Sherlock as though the detective’s presence were just noticed.  “Sherlock! Hi!  Ah’m Sam.” 

Sherlock glared at the couple.  That was...offensively...about the last thing he was expecting. He couldn’t decide who to aim the gun at, Moriarty, or the drunk pet. Taking a chance, Sherlock leveled the weapon on Samantha;  everyone had been using John lately.  Turn-around was fair play.  Even if Samantha was a victim here, drunk or not, she wasn’t being restrained, so Sherlock wasn’t so certain whether she was or wasn’t innocent in this matter. 

With a chuckle, Moriarty secured his hold on the woman who looked very ill-at-ease with a weapon trained on her.  “Sherlock, don’t be silly.  You hurt Sam, and you get to watch while John pays with interest...because trust me, _sweet little Sam_ really is more unique than even _your sexy_ mind could begin to imagine.”  Moriarty’s eyes flickered over Sherlock’s accusatory glare regarding the laser markers on John’s chest.  “Someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty. 

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world…”  At Moriarty’s side, Sam tensed. 

Annoyance quickly turned to anger as Sam’s vision focused on one spot about two feet from John.  At the same time, John flinched, his slate blue eyes quickly darting to the side as though he’d also heard whatever Sam was so intent on.  Still quite uneasy on his feet, Sam left Jim’s side, eyes narrowed.  “You.”  Sam enunciated carefully as he pointed at the apparent empty space where Al had just emerged through the Imaging Chamber door.   “Bastard.” 

“Holy Hannah Sam, we’ve been trying to get a lock on you for the past three days!”  Decked out in teal pants and an equally loud jacket, Al watched his best friend in concern. This--okay, sometimes weird behavior happened, but _this_ …wasn’t normal.  Sam was always the laid-back one in the entire _project_ , let alone between the two of them. 

“Don’t. Speak. To. Me.”  Visibly seething, Sam took another step towards Al.  “Not now. Not ever.” 

“Christ, Sam, you’re one sheet shy of being three sheets to the wind. _You_ were drinking?”  Al fought the impulse to duck when the bottle Sam had been holding was sent sailing through the air straight at his head.  Glass shattered merrily on the concrete floor several yards past where Sherlock stood.  If that thing had been a football, that would have been one beautiful pass.  “Crap.  Try to ditch that nozzle.  I dunno what the hell he’s been doing to you, but I don’t like it.” 

That only seemed to get Sam even more riled up. “Hey!   _Jim_ isn’ a’nozzle--” pointedly Sam waved back at Moriarty, “an’at least _Jim_ doesn’ keep import’nt informashun from me.” 

John glanced to the side as Sam stalked along the poolside, coming closer and closer.  From what he’d seen and heard in the limo, he knew that Sam was important, and that Moriarty wanted her to do something.  Unfortunately, from the way she’d been acting in the limo, drunk or not, John knew that getting her willingly away from Moriarty would be an ordeal in itself...wait, _nozzle_ , where had he heard that before and what was that buzzing sound? 

“Sam, what...what the hell are you talking about?  I’ve always been straight with you.”  Al was dumbfounded by the abrupt change in his friend’s attitude.  “Look, there’s three guys with guns up in the balcony, they’re using extra laser pointers to make it seem like there’s more.” 

Sadly, Sam shook his head at Al.  “Really?  Al’ws been straight wi’ me?  Ne’er tol’me’bout Donna.” 

At the sound of Sam’s voice breaking, Sherlock could easily see the look of pure amusement on Moriarty’s face.  Even though the detective could only hear Sam’s side of the conversation, it was close enough to what he’d experienced after drugging John the other day to be valid information.  It stood to reason that if Sam was the test subject for an experiment, Moriarty had kidnapped her.  Part of what troubled Sherlock was the fact that the criminal had managed to apparently instill Stockholm Syndrome in the woman so quickly. 

“My God, Sam, I couldn’t...the rules, you know--” Al stammered. 

“Keep hidin’ be’ind th’rules.  I know.  I know wha’ this waz really’bout.  Beth.  Iz all’about _Beth_.  I _saved_ Skaggs...an’ didn’ help Beth.  Leas’ when you e’re re’patriated’in sebenty five...Beth waz still _alive_.   _ **You**_ ,” Sam moved closer to Al, “at leas’ had tha’ mem’ries of her. 

“I can barely remem’er wha’ Donna look’d like...an’now she’s dead.”  Sam wobbled,  but his accusatory glare and finger never wavered. 

“Ah’ve been’shot at, tha’Pronti kid almos’ put’a bullet in mah head, surprized tha’didn’ give’me a concuzion...waz almos’hung, twice...beat up...le’s not forget ‘bout tha’ batter’n’ram _aimed_ a’my head wif five thous’nd pounds o’force beh’nd it.”  Even Moriarty looked a little uncomfortable upon that little revelatory tidbit being revealed.  It was evident that the thought of Sam being injured in such a way was thoroughly distasteful to him.  “Or when o’er two hun’red _volts_ were pump’d through my’head. 

“But...i’s all okay, cuz a’the end o’the day, _you_ ,” Sam comically pointed at Al, “ge’ta go home an’relax wif who’ever your sleepin’ wif now…” 

Sherlock, having already dismissed the lasers, frowned.  Not lovers then.  Or were they? 

Now that Sam was close enough, John managed to nerve himself up to action and grabbed the woman, sandwiching the bomb between them.  “Sherlock, run!”  Behind them, Moriarty momentarily looked at a loss as to how to react to this latest development.  Hand raised to immediately quell the reaction of his snipers, Moriarty ground his teeth before coming to a conclusion.  A quick wave of the hand now had all the laser sights on Sherlock. 

It was Al who spoke next, even though he knew that no one was going to bother listening to him.  “Doc, that is probably the last thing you wanted to do.” 

Sam squirmed in John’s grip.  “He’s right. _This_ is...the’last thing, you’want’d to’do.” 

Al sighed deeply.  “Sam, keep in mind the explosives.” 

“Sexy,” Moriarty casually put his hands in his pockets, “want some assistance?” 

A head-butt, crotch-shot and flip later, John landed on his back, rolling in pain.  Sam was likewise on the floor, kneeling in pain, a deep maroon stain appearing on his charcoal satin shirt.  He debated aiming a kick at John, but decided that he liked the man too much to kick him while down.  What was important was that he was no longer being held.  Instead, Sam scooted back towards Jim, his entire body starting to shake as painful tremors wracked him and muscles shrieked.  Blood trickled from where his stitches had just been pulled loose due to the abrupt physical exertion.  It was a little amazing how pain could clear the mind.  “Jim,” Sam’s voice wavered, his physical pain shining through what was obviously quite a lot of emotional pain,  “I. Want. To. Go. Back. Now.” 

Moriarty knelt down next to Sam, and the injured man immediately all but melted into Jim’s embrace.  “You really are a surprising little thing.”  Moriarty purred as he pulled up the stained shirt to inspect the damage. 

“Middle-weight wrestling championship title-holder...” Sam managed to joke before lowering his voice to the barest of whispers.  “ _Guess wha’ I just remembered._ ” 

“Sounds like you remembered something fun.”  The jovial tone had returned to Moriarty’s voice. “Care to share?” 

“Ziggy’s admin voice override codes. The handlink in the Imaging Chamber,” Sam was careful to enunciate each word properly, “receives _my_ delta wave frequency, translates the audio so that the vocal recognition software acknowledges _me_ as a system administrator.” 

“A sexy sysadmin, I like it.  Those codes do anything useful?”  Jim carefully helped Sam back to his feet, still eyeing John and Sherlock.  Glee made his dark eyes sparkle.  Everything about Moriarty’s body language was strongly protective of the person in his arms. 

“One will force the Imaging Chamber into a 12-hour reboot and update session.” 

“Sam!  Don’t you dare!” Al warned, “Quit listening to that nozzle!  He’s danger--” 

“Ziggy, Sam voice override. Oscar, Romeo, Papa, Hotel, Echo, Uniform, Sierra.”  Sam allowed himself to sag against Jim.  He didn’t even try to argue when he was offered an entirely too convenient bottle of water.  “We’re leavin’...now. ‘fore I go inta’shock.”  He took a long and eager drink, hoping that the cool water would at least dampen some of the pain he was in and settle the uneasiness that was crawling across his skin.  “First’time March 30th rolled aroun’, they surviv’d.”  Sam motioned back at John and Sherlock, “Jim, please, don’ put’em on mah conscience.”


	13. The Cavalry Introduced.

Chapter 13.

**_The Cavalry Introduced._**

The phone call hadn’t been expected.  When Tina showed her the call log, Sammy-Jo hadn’t known how to react.  The probabilities of an outside line to even make it through the second security level of the project’s virtual switchboard was astronomical at best;  but one little phone number in London made it through all five levels required of an outside line to reach the phone in her private office. 

They tried calling back, but kept being sent straight to voicemail.  Specifically, the voicemail of a Dr. John Watson. 

Only top level personnel of Quantum Leap knew the passcodes and how to navigate their virtual switchboard. 

Airline tickets were purchased.  Someone was calling into Project Quantum Leap.  There was only one member of personnel that it could be. 

The flight would be some ten hours, and Sammy-Jo figured she could sleep in the air before reaching London.  Ziggy would track down and acquire all data possible on their Doctor Watson.  Settling into her seat on the flight, Sammy-Jo turned off her earpiece, phone and switched off the wireless setting on her laptop. 

\-------------------- 

Face down in bed, Sam wondered if Jim would do him the favor of shooting him in the head.  Hangovers were something that he rarely ever had to endure, mainly because Sam tended to stick to light-beers, and even then he’d nurse one for most of an evening.  Even though he could barely recall the night before, Sam knew that it had been a rough one.  The shirt he’d worn to sleep had been soaked through with sweat and he’d tossed and turned the entire time.  With a pained groan, Sam pulled himself up into a seated position on the bed.  He pulled the shirt off and tossed it in the general direction of the hamper, and debated whether or not the rest of his clothes should follow suit.  On the night-stand sat a small tray with a variety of pills and a glass of water.  Most of the pills, Sam recognized as being the same ones he’d been given during his forced stay in Moriarty’s care.  There were the usual pain relievers, and given the screaming pain in his side he was somewhat relieved to see those particular ones. 

Sam picked through the pills, taking the ones that he recognized, and left the newer ones on the tray.  He figured that if he hadn’t keeled over yet, not taking the new pills wasn’t going to kill him.  There were the medications for pain relief, so Sam knew he wasn’t going to curl up in agonizing pain again.  Then there were antibiotics, and he knew the ones that Jim kept pushing on him for anxiety, which helped to stave off panic attacks. 

Leaving behind the new ‘mystery’ pills, Sam downed the ones he knew, and then stumbled into the bathroom for a shower. The drawstring pants and briefs soon found their way to the hamper. 

\-------------------- 

The instant Mycroft strolled into their flat, Sherlock suppressed his instinctive desire to hurl just about anything at his older brother.  A book was a likely item, a large one would have enough impact to potentially cause harm.  Unfortunately, the closest things that he had on hand was a laptop, a Rubix cube and the violin. 

“Don’t bother getting up, little brother,” Mycroft didn’t even bother to hide his amusement at the glare he received from Sherlock, “we’ll be gone from...your...flat in just a moment.” 

“ _We_?”  If Sherlock had bothered to straighten in his seat any further, his back might have been in danger of breaking.  As if to defy his brother, which in actuality was exactly what Sherlock _was_ doing, the detective stood up from the seat;  rosin was set down and Sherlock’s long graceful fingers trailed along the sleek neck of his violin, the bow still in hand.  Barely a handful of steps outside the flat, and only a few years older than John, a woman could be seen standing on the other side of Mycroft. 

The unintroduced woman was currently looking at the cat scratches in the door.  Annoyingly enough, Mycroft made no move to introduce her either.  Instead, he turned to Mrs. Hudson and requested that she go and kindly fetch Dr. Watson.  Once Mrs. Hudson had disappeared, wittering up the stairs, Mycroft leveled a hard and measured look which stated clearly that he would tolerate no foolish defiance nor whimsy on Sherlock’s part.  “I expect that any request that Doctor Fuller might have be accommodated,” with that, Mycroft’s unrelenting glare turned on John as soon as the blond popped in behind him, “by both of you.”  No other explanation was offered. 

“Sweetie, don’t make it sound like Ah’m the big bad wolf.”  Fuller sauntered into the flat, and was slowly starting to make her way around the room.  Her voice had a lilting and lyrical quality to the southern accent that permeated her speech, though if asked Sherlock would have stated that Fuller’s accent made it sound as though at least twenty points should automatically be deducted from her IQ. 

The woman wasn’t bad looking.  American, definitely, Louisiana or Mississippi;  Sherlock would have to listen a little more closely to that appalling accent before he’d know which of the two.  She had a friendly expressive face with an upturned nose, deep chestnut-colored hair that curled at the ends...a single lock of silver hair, that wound its way down from her temple and was consequently tucked behind an ear.  She was conservatively dressed with short nails, no rings, but pearl-studded earrings, one of which was partially obscured by a Bluetooth.  Sherlock deduced that she worked in an office, but the manner in which Mycroft was deferring to her--and Mycroft never deferred authority of any sort unless it was absolutely necessary--said in no uncertain terms that she was _important_ , so not _just_ an office worker.  Government official perhaps, but the gait was wrong for that.  On Fuller’s shoulder hung a laptop bag, upon which she slid a hand on the strap to better secure it;  Sherlock’s eyes were riveted on a tiny leather bag hooked onto the main strap as her fingers lingered a little too long on the trinket.  It was too small to be of any use, but the wear patterns on the leather indicated that it was regularly picked up.  On her other side an aluminum briefcase was firmly held. 

\-------------------- 

Doctor Fuller walked up to the music stand.  Her vivid green eyes followed the complex notes on the page presented there.  An inscrutable expression crossed her features.  She took a step back, and motioned for Sherlock to come over.  “Yer the one that plays, right?” 

It took another harsh glare from Mycroft to make Sherlock respond.  “Brilliant deduction.  Is there any other glaringly obvious thing that you would like to point out?  Such as the fact that there is a desk in the room?”  Sherlock’s scathing look would have peeled paint.  “Perhaps the coffee table as well?” 

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” the Fuller woman was completely unphased by the glare, “care to play a little?  Ah’d greatly appreciate it.” 

Much to his brother’s consternation, Sherlock didn’t bother to comply with the request.  While Sherlock certainly enjoyed playing, there was one thing he did NOT enjoy, and that was playing _on command_.  The only person that he ever played _on command_ for was mother.  Sometimes he played on request, and that was rarely, unless the person making a polite request was John; thankfully, John wasn’t the sort of person that demanded he play.  Now that he thought on it, Sherlock wasn’t entirely certain that John was even a fan of classical music.  That was something he’d have to check up on in John’s computer, playlists.  Sherlock mentally decided that if there wasn’t any acceptable classical music on John’s computer, that it was his duty as an acquaintance to delete the offending playlists;  all of them.  Then properly introduce the ex-military doctor to something more respectable. 

It was the _look_ Sherlock received from Mycroft that made him ‘play’. Sherlock didn’t even bother with bringing the instrument completely up to his chin before dragging the bow across the strings resulting in a long painful _**screeeeeEEEeeech**_ that made the sound of nails on a chalkboard sound downright melodious and soothing. 

“You must be an absolute delight at parties,” Doctor Fuller smiled as she said that, her eyes flicked down to the violin, “and Ah offer my condolences to your instrument.” 

Somewhat confused at the situation, John raised a finger.  “Uhm, excuse me, but, who is she?”  He pointed over at the woman, who was now scanning Sherlock’s desk. 

“Doctor Fuller, you shouldn’t feel the need to answer that,”  Mycroft assured Fuller. 

“Quite rude if Ah don’t answer.”  By now she’d attempted to nudge Sherlock from where he stood so that she could get a better look at some of the papers in front of him.  Being belligerent, Sherlock didn’t bother to move in the slightest.  “Ah’m Samantha Josephine Fuller, feel free ta call me Sammy-Jo...don’t bother with introductions, Ah already know who both of y’all are.”  Through clenched teeth, Sherlock twitched visibly at the conversationally-used _y’all_. 

Seeing as he wasn’t cooperating, Sammy-Jo reached up took Sherlock’s chin in hand, and took a closer look in the detective’s eyes.  Turning her head from side to side, she closed one eye, then the other as she peered into the now _very_ annoyed eyes of Sherlock.  “Hmm, green.”  Sammy-Jo relinquished her grip on Sherlock before speaking over her shoulder.  “Sweetie, Mycroft, Ah figured that yer kid brother would’ve had blue eyes, same as you.  Contacts?” 

Mycroft shook his head.  “You’re not seeing incorrectly.  For some reason Sherlock has always had green eyes.” 

“Gotcha,”  Sammy-Jo looked back into Sherlock’s eyes before stepping back from the desk.  “Sherlock, Hun, yer supposed to be the bright one here.  Humor me for a moment.  Super-string theory closed the conceptual gulley between relativity and quantum mechanics by postulating that subatomic particles aren’t points but strings;  in inches, how long are those strings, and what is the generally accepted unit of measurement?” 

Sherlock’s expression tightened.  “We use metric here.” He nearly spat at Sammy-Jo.  First the scrutiny of his face, and now this nonsensical inquiry.  He glared back in response.  “Mycroft, what is this woman doing here anyway?” 

“Ah’ll take your avoidance ta mean you don’t know the answer or yer too lazy to deal with the conversions.  Either, or, y’aint giving me anything resembling an answer.  Fine, what about the biggest positive impact on ya in high-school?”  Again she received no appropriate response from the seething man.  Sammy-Jo flashed John a warm smile.  “What about you, Sugah.  High-school, biggest positive impact?” 

“Uhm.”  Still not sure about what was going on, John looked from Sherlock, to Mycroft, then to Sherlock again before finally settling on Sammy-Jo. “The science labs?” 

“Really?  That’s what yer going with?  Answer Ah was honestly hoping ta hear was _miniskirts_.”  John snorted as he attempted to stifle a laugh.  Deciding that investigating the bookshelf would be a better use of her time, Sammy-Jo drew herself up and completely ignored the death glare she was receiving from Sherlock. 

“Miniskirts?”  John asked incredulously.  “Why?” 

“Why?”  One of the books on Sherlock’s shelf caught Sammy-Jo’s attention.  It was one that Sam had written before Starbright.  From the art on the spine, she figured that this might be one of the first American editions. 

“There is no rational reasoning behind this line of questioning.”  Sherlock raised his voice.  “Mycroft, I _demand_ to know why you have allowed this annoying person into my flat!  Who is she, and of what _importance_ is she to me?” 

“Yes.  Why?”  It was a valid question.  ...At least John thought so, though he wasn’t entirely certain as to WHAT it was being a valid question _about_. 

Now it was Sammy-Jo’s turn to ignore Sherlock’s outburst as Mycroft informed her, again, that she wasn’t required to answer any questions directed at her.  Sammy-Jo left the bookcase and stepped around to the other side of the desk.  Instead of even attempting to make Sherlock budge a millimeter against his will, it was simpler to work around him since he was bound and determined to be unhelpful.  “Hun, you do realize how much of a prima-donna yer bein’?”  Annoying Sherlock seemed like a rather fun way to get back at him for being such an uncooperative little bitch.  “John, miniskirts would’ve been one heck of an amusing answer.  Don’t ya think?” 

Sammy-Jo finally set down her briefcase as she took a closer look at some papers on the desk that were begging for Sammy’s attention.  Dots and dashes decorated the sheets.  Morse, and it looked like a child had drawn the code out.  “Pardon,” Sammy-Jo murmured, and leaned over to pick the pages up.  Beneath the crudely drawn Morse was John’s translation.  In one instant it felt as if all of Sammy-Jo’s breath had been stolen.  She understood the undercurrent of information _not_ presented in these brief few lines.  Her heart leapt up and lodged itself in her throat like a leaden lump. 

A staticky crackle sounded from the briefcase on the floor.  John jerked at the sound, now warily watching the briefcase.  Unfortunately, Sammy-Jo realized something important;  when John jumped, it wasn’t away from her case…  Which meant, something else had made the man jump.  Then came the voice, small and tinny, but Sammy-Jo could distinctly place a face with it.  Al.  “Sammy-Jo?! What in _Sam Hill_ are YOU doing here?!”  Even though she couldn’t fully hear the gravelly quality to Al’s voice, Sammy-Jo just knew that he had a cigar in hand as he all but growled out the question, and had to smile. 

“Damnit, you made one of those cockamamy contraptions that Doc Mintz…  When the hell did you even _get_ your peepers on those blueprints?  Oh, nevermind that,” the voice over the machine gave a sigh, “let knuckle-nose over there know that his Air-Bond project is going to spring one helluva a leak.  If _Buddy-boy_ wants me to even think about spilling the beans on how to cram a plug in that leak, he’d better pony up some damn good assistance on getting Sam back hopefully safe and preferably sane.  Believe me, as of four days ago, we need it.” 

\-------------------- 

Rebellion--it was exactly the sort of thing that Moriarty had been hoping to suppress in Sam.  Not that a spark of spirit was unwelcome;  no, subtly breaking down the man and re-molding Sam into exactly what he wanted Sam to be wouldn’t be fun unless there was a challenge along the way.  And a challenge was exactly what Sam was proving to be.  Moriarty watched the video feed from Sam’s quarters. 

Normally by now, Moriarty would have gone down to spend a little ‘quality’ time encouraging Sam’s emotional dependence on him.  That wasn’t an option right now.  Moriarty knew that if he went and saw Sam now, that he’d probably order Sam to be beaten bloody. 

The call log from John’s mobile had been pulled and revealed the _call_ Sam had made the previous night.  It was to a private line which connected to a virtual switchboard in New Mexico, USA.  Sam had lied through Molly’s pearly white teeth about calling anyone.   Unfortunately, punishing Sam for something Sam didn’t even remember doing would be counter-productive regardless of how _attractive_ the idea might seem.  Punishing Sam would be about tantamount to kicking a puppy for making a mess, a day after the mess was made. Sure it would make Moriarty feel better, but Sam would have absolutely no clue as to _why_ he was being punished.  In the long run, pointless punishments, while fun, would make Sam distrust him.  Then again...this could potentially introduce some much wanted entertainment. 

If he were to seriously consider having Sam reprimanded, Moriarty concluded that Ms. Adler’s skills would be up to the task of professionally _scolding_ his misbehaved captive.  Several fun thoughts flitted through Moriarty’s mind, ways in which it might be amusing to instill a little extra respect into Sam.  Moriarty wondered how lovely Sam would look while restrained by Irene.   Would there be fear and betrayal in that enticing gaze, or would be it be arousal?  Sam’s shyness and near choir-boy reputation was definitely a factor in Moriarty’s desire to see the quantum physicist broken down in such a manner. 

Over the speakers, Moriarty could hear Sam singing along to some old Elvis song playing through the TV.  On the monitoring screens, Sam could be seen scribbling frantically in his little notebook.  Eventually Sam sat back and looked directly into one of the cameras with an open and warm smile. The singing had stopped.  “Jim, could I get a white-board in here, _please?_ ” 

\-------------------- 

On their way to Saint Bart’s to get the final scans needed, John finally asked the right questions about what _was_ happening.  John knew that Molly was missing, that Sam had replaced her, and that now Moriarty had Sam.  He only had a handful of facts, plus a message asking him to take Sam _to_ Mycroft for safe-keeping.  Skeptical eyes watched Sammy-Jo as she fussed with the mechanics inside her aluminum briefcase. 

“Cliff-notes version of it all?”  The lock of hair that Sammy-Jo tucked behind an ear nearly obscured her silver streak. 

While he might not be AS smart as Sherlock, John didn’t want to give this woman the chance to wriggle her way out of NOT telling him vital information.  “No. I want to know all of what is happening.”  He reconsidered.  “Without being too technical.” 

“Fine, let’s see, best place to start,” Sammy shut the case with a secure sounding click of the lock sliding into place, “not really sure the best place to start.  You familiar with the Beckett-Lonigro String Theory of Quantum Temporal Displacement?” 

“The what?”  There were words there, John could understand some of them. 

“The Beckett-Lonigro Theory states that it is possible for a person to move forwards or backwards through time;  they are, however, limited to their own life-time.  Now, Ah know, the law of conservation of mass says matter can’t be created or destroyed, so how can someone jump through time and not wreak havoc with the laws of the universe?  Simple, the person traveling through time trades places with someone from the target time. 

“Case in point, Sam taking Molly’s place.  Ah take it that Sam is physically larger than Molly,  so to take care of that, the world is literally trying to react to Sam as it would to Molly...which is why y’all are seeing Molly, not Sam, and her clothes fit him.” 

“Wait.”   _That_ caught John’s attention.  “ _Him?_ ” 

Sammy-Jo blinked.  “Yeah.  Him.” 

“Wasn’t Sam short for,” John gulped, not really certain how to broach the topic politely, “Samantha?”  The woman seated next to him started giggling. 

“Nope.  Sorry.  Sam is short for Samuel.” 

“But--Molly’s a woman.” 

“Ah’m sure she is a very lovely lady,”  Sammy-Jo grinned back at John, “but back to the original point.  What’s important now is that this is the _first_ time that Sam has moved past the initial date he first traveled in time.  Normally he doesn’t stay long in any one person.  So far the longest stay we’ve recorded has been two weeks...shortest one hour.” 

“But--Molly’s a woman.”  John sounded something like a broken record.  Mentally he replayed last night, that poor woman...man.  This was...difficult.  Remembering further back, John couldn’t believe that he’d almost attempted to set Sherlock up with another bloke. 

“Yeah, don’t get too hung up on that one little detail.”  The vehicle slowed to a stop. “Seriously, Ah tell ya that time travel exists, and you get stuck on genders.” 

\-------------------- 

It was nearly evening by the time Dr. Fuller ran the last scan on John.  The day had been longer than John would ever have expected it to be, and he was more than a little tired of being dragged around.  Was a little rest that much out of the question?  During the time he’d been subjected to scan after scan, John had come to better terms with the information that he’d been told.  One thing that John wasn’t quite sure about, and really did leave him puzzled, was _why_ him and _when_ had **Sam** told anyone about trusting him?  The only conversations that the two of them had had were over Shan’s body, and that dreadful interaction over an aborted dinner. 

Silently John slipped down from the steel table where he’d been laying for a full body scan.  Over the intercom he’d been informed that he could finally change out of the hospital gown and put his normal clothes back on.  It wasn’t until he was fully dressed again and face to face with his own reflection again in the men’s room that John started to wonder what life must be like for _Sam_ ;  always being treated like someone else.  John wasn’t sure that he’d be able to deal with something quite like that. 

John knocked on the door to the office that Sammy-Jo had holed herself up in, and a hushed voice told him to enter.  With an embarrassed look as she held a mobile phone, the woman inside ushered John to take a seat.  “Ah’m so sorry, Dr. Watson, but Ah really need to take this,” Sammy-Jo apologised before sheepishly going back to the conversation on her phone. 

“Mrs. Platt, Ah’m really sorry about Jamie acting up like that in class… especially after the Godzilla incident and the science exam earlier this year.”  Turning from John, Sammy-Jo faced a window and fingered the cord which controlled the horizontal blinds.  “And yes, Ah have repeatedly, ad nauseam, told him that he is required to be respectful of his teachers regardless of their personal beliefs.” 

A deep sigh escaped Dr. Fuller.  From the tone of her voice, John guessed that whatever was happening, it wasn’t good.  He was just hoping that for once this bad thing that was happening didn’t involve him. 

“Please let Mr. Matteson know how deeply sorry Ah am about Jamie calling him an evolutionarily-skipped knuckle-walker that potentially has more genetically in common with a troglodyte than a _Homo sapiens_. 

“Yes, Ma’am… Ah understand.  Yes’m…Ah completely agree. 

“Ah will do mah best to have someone come on over and pick up Jamie as soon as possible,” Sammy-Jo paced across the small room, “an Ah understand that until he is picked up he will be in in-school detention.  Thank you for being so understanding about this...  Ah really do apologise for Jamie’s outbursts, and Ah’ll see what can be done to curtail this ungentlemanly behavior. Again, thank you and Ah’ve already made a note to come in and discuss Jamie’s situation as soon as Ah’ve returned stateside.” 

Finally the call ended.  Sammy-Jo all but collapsed into the seat in front of a sleek laptop, slumping immediately from the strain of her recent phone call.  “Sorry’bout that.”  Sammy-Jo offered a weak smile.  “Just a slight bit of trouble on mah homefront, nothing to do with you, but it does need my attention.” 

Another call was made.  Not that he meant to, but seeing as John was in the room, he overheard this call from start to finish.  John’s head buzzed with questions while Sammy-Jo made arrangements with someone named Tina to pick up her son, Jamie…  John wanted to ask about why _Jamie’s_ father wasn’t helping out, but he didn’t want to impose.  It wasn’t as if John’s own upbringing had been the best, and his father had been known to drink rather heavily on several occasions, but at least there had been a father figure in the picture.  Sometimes John believed that his own father’s problem’s with alcohol was the initial source of Harriet’s addiction. 

“Ah’ve been getting your data compiled and input into Ziggy as fast as Ah can,” a hand was run through Sammy-Jo’s long hair, the edges of her silver streak nearly faded into the rest of the deep color, “and with luck, you’ll be properly synched with the system soon and’ll be able to see and hear Al without problems.” 

“So, Al is that observer person, right?” 

“Bingo.  He’s Admiral Albert Calavicci.” 

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.  The same could be said about one Albert Calavicci. This, however, was the first time that John was able to see the distinct outline of a white glowing door slide open and the man step through.  Even if the image wasn’t completely clear yet, John could quite well hear the rumble that the door made as it opened.  There was still some static interfering, but thankfully the somewhat translucent man only looked as though he were slightly out of focus with the world around them.  Next to Sammy-Jo, her aluminum case mirrored the sound, albeit much more faintly, which also alerted her to the newcomer. 

With the ever present cigar, which amusingly enough wasn’t lit yet, Al gestured at John as he spoke.  “Okay, Johnny-boy, can you finally hear me?” 

Not that this was something that John really wanted, but…  “Yes, but how is--this possible?” 

“Easy, wait--you mean Sammy-Jo didn’t fill you in on that stuff?”  Al gave Dr. Fuller a squinty-eyed look. 

“What was I supposed to do?”  Not bothering to stop typing, Sammy-Jo rolled her eyes.  “We’re kind of in a time crunch, I needed scans, and Dr. Watson got hung up on the gender thing...much like someone else I know.” 

“Yeah, well, not my fault that the first time Sam leapt into woman it so happened to be a blond bombshell with the most perfect--” 

“ _Al_!” Sammy-Jo interrupted forcefully.  The gestures Al was starting to imply didn’t need to be seen, it was evident from just the tone of voice she was picking up through her equipment  where his line of thought was going. 

“Eyes!  Perfect baby-blue eyes.  Sheesh!” 

“Anyway, the reason _you_ can see and hear Al and _Ah_ can’t is because what you are seeing and interacting with is a neurological hologram attuned to your brain waves created by the subatomic agitation of the carbon quarks in the mesons of your optic and otic neurons.” Sammy-Jo gave a half-hearted wave at her silver case.  “My little toy there is based off of one of Timothy Mintz’s equipment designs from the early seventies.  Professor Mintz is a parapsychologist, and is quite well-regarded in his field of study.  That toy picks up a very specific range of supersonic frequencies, which is why it is able to project the sound transmitted by Al. 

“And this Al which we are chattin’ with is just about anywhere further along the timeline.  We’re probably throwing Ziggy for one heck of a loop considering how far off of the original history everything’s gone.”  With practiced ease, Sammy-Jo began to collect her things.  All of the electronic equipment was quietly and efficiently slipped into the individualized sections of her shoulder bag. 

“You kiddin’?  Ziggy’s spitting out circuits like crazy.”  A silver Zippo was brought out from the front pocket of Al’s boldly colored sport jacket.  Flipping the lid open with a flourish, Al lit the cigar he’d been carrying.  He took a puff and slowly chewed on the end, enjoying the taste of the tobacco.  “Beeksie is trying to calm her down...but that ain’t happening.” 

Sammy-Jo snorted a rather unladylike laugh.


	14. Getting to Know You.

Chapter 14.

_**Getting to Know You.**_

They’d been talking about what had happened in the limo with Sam.  The singing was explained, and John was somewhat impressed and amused by the fact that Sam had spent time in the early seventies as the lead singer Geoffrey ‘ _Tonic_ ’ Mole from the band _King’s Thunder_.  It made sense that Sam had been able to belt out _Rock the Redhead_ , he’d sung it on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans while on tour. 

It was during this conversation that Sammy-Jo finally told John what she considered the worst repercussion of Sam’s quantum leaping through time.  Amnesia.  Like Sherlock, Sam had an eidetic memory;  both men naturally remembered everything they encountered.  Being subjected to the torrent of time, however, ripped gaping holes in Sam’s memories. 

Sammy-Jo’s entire demeanor changed once John stated was the reason that Moriarty kept Sam.  “Ya sure the phrase used was _Lothos_?”  Seated comfortably in the cab, Sammy-Jo gave John a wary glance as she shifted nervously, her hand reached for her mobile.  “This Moriarty joker wants Sam ta rebuild an’ program _Lothos_?” 

“Yes,” John blinked, “I take it that’s not a good thing.” 

“Well, if yer asking on a scale of one to invade Russia in the winter, how bad can it be?  The answer is, you’d better grab a parka.” 

\-------------------- 

Sherlock was all but buzzing about in a manic fury by the time John had wandered back up the stairs to their flat.  As far as the detective was concerned, John wasn’t the one that was supposed to go off and be handed interesting cases.  This, this thing that had John occupied for most of the day was unsettling to say the least.  A few extra bullets currently adorned the happy face spray-painted across the ghastly wall paper. 

That-- _woman_ , Dr. Fuller, wasn’t someone that Sherlock had been knowledgeable about.  To rectify that situation he’d done some research on her.  Normally it wouldn’t have phased him, but Sherlock certainly was somewhat surprised to find out that Dr. Fuller was part of Dr. Beckett’s team.  However, that didn’t explain why his brother was ceding even the slightest bit of authority to her.  There had to be more.  Mycroft _never_ yielded power unless there was absolutely no other viable option open to him. 

A little part of Sherlock was pleased when Fuller didn’t accompany John up the stairs.  John’s expression told Sherlock that this wouldn’t be the only day that John would be occupied with this unexplained mystery case.  Sherlock was ready to pounce and wrestle the answers to a hundred unasked questions from John…  Right now one of the more prominent questions was, what the heck was the Air-Bond project that was going to spring a leak, and how did this mystery group know about it? 

Sherlock was about to start speaking the instant John came into view.  Except John already had his hand up and from experience knew that he needed to command Sherlock’s attention before the detective could even speak.  “Not one word, Sherlock, not one word.” 

Mouth hanging open like a gasping fish, Sherlock gaped at John. 

“Before you even ask.  No, I am not going to tell you every single detail about what is going on, I’m not even certain how much I’m allowed to talk to you about it.  Pretty obvious, but Sam is part of a Top Secret project,” for a moment, John hesitated;  he’d had enough problems dealing with Sam’s gender and didn’t quite feel like sending Sherlock’s head spinning in regards to the same, “she is supposed to be as bloody brilliant as you are.  Right now, she needs help, and I intend to try and give it. 

“Hell, you wouldn’t even begin to believe what that Project QL has managed to do…  I scarcely believe what they’ve been telling me.  If Mycroft wasn’t taking them seriously, I’d have thought they were lying about everything.” 

John sighed and ran a hand down his face.  “I’ve just had one hell of a day being popped into and out of medical equipment. I’m going to bed.”  The very last thing John wanted to think about was Sherlock in conjunction with bed.  Especially after having woken the other day tucked into his bed, and missing his pants. 

\-------------------- 

A tell-tale door sized light appeared in the middle of the living room just a foot or so away from the coffee table.  The light along with the unique whoosh sound announced to John that Admiral Calavicci had returned.  “Oh, good!  You’re already up.”  Al was dressed just about as flamboyantly as he had been the last time John saw him. 

John made a muffled sound of acknowledgement that sounded something along the lines of ‘ _morning_ ’ in the direction of the hologram as he munched on a bowl of cereal.  From the kitchen Sherlock immediately popped his head out. 

“Grab yer laptop,” Al ordered.  “There’s some stuff you need to look up online.  It occurred to me last night after I left the Imaging Chamber...what with that nozzle screwing Sammy’s head on backwards, there’s a damn good chance that Sam isn’t gonna come back all that willingly.” 

“But Moriarty’s only had Sam for a few days, AND Sam is smart.  Whatever hooks Moriarty has in _her_ ,” John kept with the female pronouns to momentarily keep his life easier, “they can’t be all that deep yet, right?  Not to mention, _she_ thought ahead enough to have you contact outside help.”  Still, not bothering to relinquish his hold on the bowl of cereal, John ambled over to the desk where his laptop was currently seated and open. 

“Her?”  Al’s eyes darted over to the uncharacteristically quiet Sherlock, who had started stalking them, then the hologram shrugged.  “Right, whatever floats your boat. 

“Slight problem with that thinking.  Yeah Sammy’s a smart cookie, but that ain’t gonna help much at the moment.  You know the steps for brainwashing a person?  Those don’t depend on smarts, and Sam’s already lathered-up for this Moriarty-jerk to rinse and repeat.” 

Spoon halfway to his mouth, it was John’s turn to gape.  “Brainwashing?  That’s...yeah. Sammy-Jo told me the bit about the partial retrograde amnesia.   From what I saw while in the limo while being kidnapped, I can see the brainwashing.  Moriarty was highly protective.  Even though Sam was flighty--” 

“Sam ain’t flighty, he’s being doped to the eyeballs.”  Al interjected. 

“Drugs?”  The spoon was set down.  “That makes even more sense.  Poor thing was twitchy.  Withdrawal most likely. 

“But, Sam was flighty, and irritable.  Even though Moriarty had threatened his own goons when one of them made a move against Sam, Moriarty had no qualms about grabbing _her_ by the throat.” 

Al was incensed.  “That bastard grabbed Sam by the throat?!  I’ll kill ‘im!” 

Finally John managed to down the long waiting spoonful of cereal.  “So, what did you want me to look up?” 

“Oh, right.”  Walking over, Al stopped behind John’s chair, scentless cigar smoke delicately hung in the air around them.  “So, good chance Sammy ain’t gonna want to leave this yokel willingly.  Five to one, you’re gonna be the one that drags Sam’s ass out of there.  If he takes a swipe at ya, you kind of need to have an idea of what you’re going up against.” 

That was the sort of comment that made John more than a little concerned.  He vaguely recalled the off-hand comment that Sam had made back at the pool about being a middle-weight wrestling title holder. “Up against?  How dangerous is Sam?” 

Sherlock stepped up behind them, unknowingly through Al.  Apparently, deciding to cede the space, Al stepped a few paces to the right.  Vibrant green eyes were drawn to the screen in front of John.  “Yes,” Sherlock’s deep voice was tinged with curiosity, though John wasn’t certain whether that curiosity was for the himself or this insane case, “how dangerous can Samantha truly be?” 

Al rolled his eyes.  “Trust me, if Sam sets his mind to it, he can give you one hell of an ass-whupping.  Pull up YouTube and see if you can find the Kid Cody Boxing match...from, oh, nineteen seventy-somethin’.  The one you want is the one with the cute little blond streaker and a whole slew of nuns in the audience.” 

“A boxing match...with nuns?” 

Sherlock mouthed the word ‘nun’. 

“There,” Al pointed at the screen as the right video showed up under the search, “that’s the one. Hey, that’s right, nineteen seventy-four.  God, Sam hated the seventies.  I loved the seventies, those were some of the best years of my life;  Sam always claimed the seventies were tacky with the popped collars and polyester suits.” 

Waving his cigar at the monitor, Al’s stogie went through the image of Kid Cody.  “Johnny-boy, this was Sammy’s third...no, fourth leap.  So his brain was still pretty swiss-cheesed.  He didn’t remember that he _knew_ Judo, Karate, Muay Thai and Taekwondo till about twenty leaps after this one...and _when_ Sam remembered, he was a single mom in the eighties with three kids and living in Arizona. 

“You know, that was when we realized that little kids can see me;  animals, kids and the mentally absent.  Well, little kids see me, and they see Sam as himself.  Poor little Theresa Bruckner was really upset that some strange man was wearing her mommy’s clothes and _pretending_ to be her mom.   Why can’t gorgeous blondes with low IQs and even lower morals see me?” 

By now John wasn’t even attempting to politely look at the computer, he was full-on staring at Al in utter disbelief. Something about the older man’s speech rang both true and false, though John didn’t have a clue as to what part was the falsehood. 

“You know, fate has one hell of a sick sense of humor.  It keeps dropping Sam into absolute cuties.  First time, blond, blue eyes and a body to die for.  God, Tina thought I was having an affair.”  Al took a long drag on his cigar.  “Second, single mom.  Third time, beauty queen.  A southern beauty queen...I’m a sucker for a southern belle.  Of course, it shouldn’t have surprised me that Sam placed first in the 35th annual Miss Deep South Pageant...Darlene Monte, the girl that he leapt into, originally took third place.  Damn, she was one hell of a looker too.  Of course, Tina dumped me around that time, she thought I was having another affair...again.” 

John pointed at the computer and clicked the link.  “So, Kid Cody, right?” 

\-------------------- 

Not only did they watch the boxing video, but also a wrestling one from the 1950’s where Sam went several rounds single-handedly against an opponent in a tag-team event and suffered extreme abuse at the hands of a mountain of a man.  John’s jaw hung open.  A second video of the same wrestler, a young american pretending to be a Russian named _Nikolai_ , was pulled up, the match only lasted a few minutes;  Al pointed out the exact moment in which Sam leapt in, was surprised by his surroundings and promptly dispatched his assailant with a well placed kick.   

None of the videos impressed Sherlock.   All the consulting detective saw was old grainy film that had absolutely nothing of interest.  There was no evident correlation between the boxer or the wrestler. 

“Unfortunately you won’t be able to see the extent of his moves.  The guy in charge of the match flat out told Sam to knock off the flying noodle kick,” Al started to explain as they watched Sam/Nikolai being pummeled by a wrestler that for all intents and purposes probably should have been a weight-class higher than he actually was classified in.   “ _Nikolai’s_ real name is Teri Sammis, his wrestling partner is Ronny Sammis, Teri’s older brother.  Their schtick was that they were the Russian baddies...as you can imagine, they weren’t real popular. 

“As you can see, Sammy can both handle and dish out a fair amount of punishment.  Push comes to shove, you’d better be prepared to defend yourself if he gets it into his head to take a swing at you.  Thanks to Moriarty, Sam is coming out of the gate fighting dirty;  I can’t be physically touched, at the pool Sam was coming after me on a psychological level.  Don’t even delude yourself into thinking that your time in Afghanistan gives you any sort of advantage in this situation.”


	15. Up next.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pace is starting to pick up a little as Sammy-Jo speaks with John and Sherlock. As far as Sherlock is concerned, this is certainly becoming a taller and taller tale! Time travel and psychics? What next?

Chapter 15.

**_Up next._**

“Thanks for flying in so quickly, Mom.”  Sammy-Jo paced to and fro in the guest room that Mycroft had made available to her in his home.  At her ear was the earbud that Sherlock had noticed the day before.  If it hadn’t been for a loaned dressing-gown, Sammy-Jo would also have been wearing the previous day’s clothes as well.  The voice on the other end of her phone was, shockingly, that of her mother.  “If I could have brought Jamie with me, I would have...he’s wanted to travel for so long.  But with work, you know I can’t travel.  This trip was hands-down an emergency.” 

When she had leapt on the plane the other day the only things that she had brought with her were a laptop bag, and the aluminum case.  Clothes never made it with her.  Thankfully she’d had her charging cables tucked away in the laptop bag;  an electric adapter had been purchased in the airport. 

\-------------------- 

Sammy-Jo was seated at the dining table, enjoying a quick breakfast when John walked through the door.  The appearance of Sherlock just behind John wasn’t exactly a welcome sight.  The woman figured that she couldn’t exactly complain, seeing that she was in the home of Sherlock’s older brother.  It wasn’t as though Sherlock could truly be denied access to his brother.  Who was she to talk?  She was still in the loaned dressing-gown. 

“Heya, ‘moring John!”  Sammy-Jo beamed at the man, and pointedly ignored his shadow.  Setting down her fork, Sammy-Jo picked up the tablet that had been on the table, and flipped the cover open.  “Ah’m gonna pull Ziggy up on mah tablet, she’s dyin’ta meet’cha.” 

“Ziggy?”  John glanced around a little uncertainly.  “I-- I was under the impression that Ziggy was, uhm, a computer system?” 

Fingers hovering over one of the apps on her screen, Sammy-Jo re-evaluated the doctor in front of her… she then turned her attention to Sherlock.  With a sniff, Sammy-Jo returned her gaze to John.  “She is, and isn’t. Ziggy is probably one of Sam’s most groundbreaking technological advancements.  She is currently the only functional parallel hybrid computer in existence.” 

“Currently?”  Sherlock pulled a seat out from the table and settled himself into it as he glared at the woman seated not so far from him.  The detective continued to keep a close eye on Sammy-Jo.  As far as he was concerned, he didn’t like the notion of some stranger wandering about his brother’s home in nothing but a dressing gown. 

Sammy-Jo pointedly ignored Sherlock’s inquiry and remained focused on her conversation with John.  “When Sam originally built her back in the late nineties, Ziggy was _only_ capable of handling a trillion floating point calculations at once, and had a petabyte of memory.  As the years passed, we’ve kept upgrading Ziggy’s systems on a regular basis.”  With a sly smile, the woman popped a bit of bacon into her mouth before activating the app with her pinky.  “Ziggy, Sugah, say _hi_ to Doctor Watson, and play nice.” 

“Of course, Doctor Fuller.  I _always_ play nice.”  The voice coming from the tablet, presumably Ziggy’s voice, had a teasing, low, sensual quality about it.  The tablet was handed over to John just as Anthea walked into the room carrying a handled shopping bag.  The tablet’s screen glowed, the colors fading into each other, swirling and cascading together brightly in a melody of hues reminiscent of a sparkling light opal that pulsed with each spoken word.  “Hello, Doctor Watson, I am Ziggy.  I read your blog.  It was quite entertaining.” 

Anthea sauntered up to Sammy-Jo and handed off the bag.  “I trust that these will be adequate.” 

“Ah’m sure they will be,” Sammy-Jo flushed, “last thing Ah want ta do is inconvenience anyone any further than Ah already have.” 

\-------------------- 

“Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.  You have very impressive credentials, Doctor Watson.” 

“Uhm, thank you?”  John blinked down at the tablet in his hands from which the coy voice came from.  This _Ziggy_ system sounded very human.  John wasn’t certain how to take what he construed must be a compliment from it.  Apparently it seemed that even Sherlock was curious. 

“I was merely stating a fact, but you are welcome.  It is nice to know that Doctor Beckett hasn’t lost his taste in military men,” the voice all but purred and the colors shimmered.  “Once Doctor Beckett has been returned to the Project Quantum Leap complex I recommend that you submit an application with our security department.” 

“What? Why?”  By now both John and the tablet had Sherlock’s full attention.  Sherlock’s eyes were narrowing by the second. 

“Simple.  Given human nature’s penchant for violence, there is a 87.9% probability that Doctor Beckett’s life will be placed in direct danger by conspiracy theorists and religious zealots.  Doctor Beckett is still officially listed as missing and has already received 2683 death threats this year. Make that 2684.  One more arrived in Doctor Beckett’s inbox .7 seconds ago. 

“Doctor Watson, Mr. Holmes’ assistance may be beneficial in retrieving Doctor Beckett.  Quantum Leap is a Code One Classified project.  Doctor Fuller is not allowed to share Project Data with Mr. Holmes.  Even though Mr. Holmes has the potential to be as brilliant as Dr. Beckett, based on Mr. Holmes’ psychological profile I can conclude that he would never pass Security Checks for the Project.  However, due to a technicality, Dr. Watson may share information he considers pertinent.” 

John blinked more than a little uncertainly at that.  “Wait, this is supposed to be a Code One Project.  Why is it that I can talk about it, but not Sammy-Jo?” 

“Dr. Fuller has been part of Project Quantum Leap since it was started in 1995.  Dr. Watson’s Security Clearance and official involvement in Project Quantum Leap will not take effect until after Ms. Hooper has arrived in the Project’s Waiting Room.  Hooper, I like that name, it sounds quaint. 

“If Mr. Holmes is interested in learning more about Project Quantum Leap, it is recommended that he contact Carol and Rebecca Pruitt from Pine County, Oklahoma and inquire about the time in which they interacted with a Mr. Leon Stiles.  Another person you may want to contact is Teresa Bruckner from Scottsdale, Arizona;  inquire about the incident in which her older brother was kidnapped.  Finally, there is Tamlyn Matsuda from San Francisco, California;  she survived being targeted by a serial strangler.  There is a printer on the network I have access to;  a print-out with current addresses and phone numbers for Carol Pruitt, Rebecca Pruitt, Teresa Bruckner and Tamlyn Matsuda will be in the tray shortly.  Oh dear;  paper jam.” 

By now Sherlock had gravitated to behind John, and the expression on his face clearly indicated that he was debating whether or not to take the tablet from John’s hands.  Whether or not the tablet would be smashed was also highly questionable.  “You’ve stated that I would not pass the screening process for this…Project, yet you are clearly requesting my assistance in locating Samuel Beckett.  Why?” 

The tablet’s screen shimmered and pulsed as if with amusement.  “Mr. Holmes.  No attempt has been made to request your assistance, it was merely inferred that your assistance could prove beneficial.  It would be negligent for any Project personnel to knowingly request the assistance of an individual who holds only an Associate’s Degree in Music.  However, I can predict with 73.9% accuracy that you will want to find Dr. Beckett himself and inquire why he is in 2011 London, England.  I do not currently have enough relevant data to analyze in order to calculate the exact reason for the deviation in Dr. Beckett’s leap pattern.” 

“But you are asking _John?!_ ” Sherlock seethed. 

“Yes.” 

For a moment John thought about handing the tablet off to Sherlock, but his friend’s penchant for childish antics meant that most likely the tablet would be destroyed.  “Girls, play nice,” he tried, hoping to somewhat diffuse the situation.  One glance at Sherlock proved that that attempt had failed miserably.  Right, backup plan...sending Sherlock off might make a nice distraction.  “Sherlock, go...get your print-out from the printer, un-jam it or something.”  Even so, John cringed as he watched Sherlock all but stomp out of the room like a petulant child.  Under his breath, he muttered, “He’s twenty years too old for this…”   

\-------------------- 

Moriarty watched as Sam effortlessly rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet while furiously scribbling down a formula across a whiteboard.  Moriarty had had to agree that they would be very useful, especially with filming making up for Sam’s erasing--not that that happened often.  Still, even his rare errors made for interesting contemplation.  Some of the exercise equipment had been unbolted from the floor and moved to make room for the set of whiteboards.  It was a slight gamble, but those were still the only items of furniture, if they could be called that, that weren’t bolted into place.  Now that Sam had given up all pretense of being _Molly_ , there was a unique grace in how Sam moved and managed to reveal rare instances of pure beauty in Molly’s form.  The long brown hair lay loose across Molly’s back, tousled and shining in thick waves. 

He’d read about Sam’s martial arts skills, but it was sublime to be able to see the way it impacted every aspect of the scientist.  Then again, watching Sam practice t’ai chi every morning probably helped. 

“You know,” Sam interrupted Moriarty’s reverie, “in Starbright, Al used to hang out in the lab watching me work too.  I always complained about his cigar smoke stinking up the place. 

“God, that was before I met Donna.  That first year for Thanksgiving...well, after Al realized I was one of the project Leads and he stopped using me as a gopher,” Sam stepped back from the whiteboard and tapped his chin with the bottom of the marker, “I found out that he didn’t have anywhere to go.  Al’s marriage was on the rocks…  So he came with me to my sister’s in Hawaii.  Bastard charmed both mom and Katie.  Something tells me that if Tom had still been alive, Al would have gotten along great with him too.” 

“Sam...”  Moriarty approached the scientist.  Tucking a few errant strands of hair behind Sam’s ear, Moriarty smiled warmly and continued, allowing his hand to linger a little longer on Sam’s cheek.  “You forgot.  Your brother Tom is alive.  He’s in Elkridge, Indiana, at the farm you grew up on.” 

Sam froze.  “I didn’t remember.” 

Moriarty’s hands moved to Sam’s shoulders.  It was a display of concern.  “Sam.  Talk to me.  I only want to help you, and I can’t do that if you won’t talk.” 

“I’m sorry.”  Sam turned, and Moriarty’s hands pulled him into a loose hug that Sam didn’t bother fighting.  “It’s just… I’m really confused.  It’s almost as if post-leap history...doesn’t want to stay fixed in my memories, like ocean waves that keep rolling in and out;  churning the sand as each wave hits and leaves me struggling to remember.  It’s frustrating. 

“This,” not pulling away, but leaning further into Moriarty’s embrace, Sam made a wide sweeping gesture with one arm at the formulas on the board, “is the only thing that really makes sense anymore.” 

Moriarty was more than slightly pleased to note when Sam moved closer and put his own arms around him.  “Don’t worry, I’ll help clear everything up, don’t you worry.”  Nuzzling the top of Sam’s head, Moriarty inhaled the sweet scent of the shampoo that had been provided.  Mint mixed with Sam’s own warmth.  “Just leave everything to me.” 

\-------------------- 

Why should he care whether or not it was seven a.m. where Rebecca Pruitt was.  Sherlock had fought with the printer, and nearly flung the vile piece of technology skittering across the floor before managing to retrieve the print-out that Ziggy had made for him.  “Is this, or is it not the home of Rebecca Pruitt.”  Sherlock repeated into the cordless phone that he’d taken the liberty of retrieving from the wall.  True, it was his brother’s land-line;  also true, Sherlock didn’t know or care what sort of long distance calling plan Mycroft had. 

The woman on the other end of the line sounded tired.  She also sounded older, her voice thin and frail.  Neither quality endeared her to Sherlock.  “Yes, I’m Rebecca Pruitt, but no one’s called me that,” the woman yawned, “since I got married.  Who’s this?” 

Sherlock frowned, definitely American.  “Sherlock,”  Sherlock stopped for a dramatic pause,  “Sherlock Holmes.  I am a consulting detective in London.” 

“Which probably sounds a lot more impressive to you than to me, especially at seven a.m.  What’s this call about, before I think better of the situation and hang up on you?” 

Sherlock blinked.  Americans, in his opinion, were ruder than they needed to be.  “I need to know about Leon Stiles and your interaction with him.” 

There was a long pause, during which Sherlock began to wonder whether the line had lost its connection.  “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in close to fifty years,” Rebecca sounded much more awake and alert, “Leon Styles was a very dangerous man.   When I was a little girl, Leon Stiles held my momma and me hostage for a night.  The sheriff almost killed Mr. Styles in my living room.  Is that what you needed to hear, Mr Holmes?  Can I get off the phone now and go back to sleep?” 

So where was the connection with Samuel Beckett?  Sherlock decided to take a chance, it wasn’t as though he had anything to lose.  Especially since the incident that he’d been sent to inquire about was a bloody wild goose chase that happened half a century ago.   “Have you ever heard the phrase Quantum Leap?”  The gasp on the other end of the line told Sherlock that he’d hit paydirt.  Maybe it wasn’t such a wild goose chase after all. 

“Mr. Holmes, what are you really calling about?” 

“Tell me about that night and Quantum Leap.” 

Sherlock could hear Rebecca exhale sharply.  “Mr. Holmes, you’d better be giving me a reason to talk to you, or I’m gonna hang up in short order.  You’re nothing but a voice over the phone to me, there’s no reason for me to trust you.” 

“Samuel Beckett.”  Sherlock dropped the name he was currently cursing the existence of.  He couldn’t think of anything else that he could tell this stranger.  That name, that person, was the only thing tying any of this insanity together.  Sherlock hoped that this was enough for her. 

There was another long pause.  “That...is a mighty fine reason.  Sam.  Momma and I followed his career, cut out all the press clippings about him.  Not sure why, but it surprised us when we found out how attractive he is, or was.  Now, Mr. Holmes, are you certain you really want to know what happened the night of June 18, 1958?  The night that Leon Stiles broke into my home and held my momma and me hostage for several hours?” 

“Yes.  I am certain.”  This was becoming tedious. 

Rebecca yawned again before continuing.  “Before I say anything, I’ve got to ask, you’ve seen him, right?  Is Sam alright?  Gimme a sec while I make some coffee…” 

“I have had the _pleasure_ of meeting of Sam Beckett.  The last time I spoke with him, he seemed to be quite spirited.”  Only part of that was a lie. 

Over the phone Sherlock could hear Rebecca’s coffee starting to perk.  “So, what happened that he told you who he is?” 

“What?”  That was an odd question. 

“With as important a scientist as Sam Beckett is, if he miraculously came back, there would be news coverage.  Sam isn’t back yet.  Which means that the Sam you met is the one still being bounced around by Quantum Leap.  It’s a shame, Sam seemed like such a gentleman, all he wanted was to go home.” 

“You’re right.  The Sam that I have spoken to is the one still involved in Quantum Leap.”   Sherlock looked down at the paper in his hand. 

“That night, back in 58, Momma and I were watching the news.  Everyone was all excited and scared about Sputnik.  The space race was in full swing.  Last thing either of us expected was for the door to be kicked in and be attacked by Leon Styles.  It was when Leon was looking out the window at the sheriff that had been tracking him, that all the violence and rage in Leon just up and vanished.  That was when Leon Styles came over, sweet as a lamb, and about as uncertain as a newborn fawn.  He said his name was really Sam Beckett, and that he was part of a time-travel experiment called Quantum Leap--” 

“Of all the ludicrous things I’ve ever heard--” Sherlock interrupted, and interrupted himself in turn. 

“Mr. Holmes, shut your mouth.  Do you always go around flapping your gums willy-nilly like that, or am I the only person who’s had the pleasure of your closed mind?  You asked what happened, and I’m telling you. ”  The distinct clink and rattle of dishes could be heard over the phone line as Rebecca Pruitt continued telling Sherlock about what _she_ knew of Quantum Leap.  It wasn’t much;  after all, it had been some fifty years back that Sam Beckett had told her and her mother.  Sam’s credibility was helped immensely by the fact that Leon Styles had been illiterate, and Sam was not only a Quantum Physicist, but a medical doctor as well…  Sam easily described any procedure in her mother’s medical textbook. 

Sherlock’s second call was to Teresa Bruckner.  This girl was in her early thirties and studying paleontology at a state college in Arizona.  Once Sherlock had some form of trust with her, Teresa admitted that her specialty in paleontology was because of Sam and Al.  Sam had only been in her life for about a day and a half. 

“For the longest time, I thought I’d made up Sam and Al.  Then I saw them interviewed on some news report in the nineties, and I knew they’d really been there;  and that they’d lied through their teeth to me.  Sam has, had, whatever, this cute little streak of silver up by his temple, hard to mistake him…or Al’s fashion sense.” Teresa said, her voice contemplative as she remembered the incident. 

“Lied?”  Sherlock wasn’t liking the concept of time-travel. It was too problematic.  “How so?” 

She laughed.  The bright happy sound quickly cut itself off when Teresa spoke again.  “Al said that they were there to help my brother win his swim meet.” 

“Help with a swim meet?”  Sherlock rubbed the bridge of his nose.  Of all the stupid things. Even if time-travel were plausible, why would someone go through that much time and effort to assist a child with a swim meet?  “What was the lie.” 

“I didn’t find out till years later, but, my brother was kidnapped by some transients.  If Sam and Al hadn’t been there, I’m sure that my brother would have died that night.” 

“And this was when?” 

Teresa sighed, “Uhm, it would have been early eighties.  I was only five years old, so...eighty-one.” 

Oddly enough, the thought that passed through Sherlock’s mind when he heard that year… was that that was the year he was born. 

\-------------------- 

Sam gasped sharply when he was pinned against the wall by Jim.  Under most other circumstances, Sam would have popped the offending party in the face.  Except, Jim wasn’t just anyone…  Sam knew he wasn’t thinking clearly, but right now he really didn’t care.  All that mattered at this exact moment was that this felt nice.  Sam murmured contentedly as Jim’s lips ghosted over the sensitive skin of his neck. 

There was just one thing that Sam had to be sure of before they went much further.  On a conscious level, Sam knew that even though Jim kept encouraging him to act as himself...Jim was seeing Molly’s aura.  Problem was, there were more than a few anatomical differences between himself and Molly.  Sam felt one of Jim’s hands slip up under his shirt and settle on his waist.  “Jim?” 

“Mmm,” Moriarty peppered Sam’s neck with light kisses as he responded.  “Yes, Sam?” 

“You do remember--I’m a man, right?”  Sam stated, sounding almost a little more innocent than he’d originally intended.  “I mean--” 

Any further protests were silenced with a kiss.  Moriarty prodded at Sam’s lips, prompting him to open up for the kiss to deepen.  Finally the necessity of oxygen forced them to part.  “Believe me, I know.  I know.” 

Gasping for breath, Sam allowed his head to loll back against the wall he was pinned against.  “Okay, just...making...sure.” 

\-------------------- 

The ends of the great coat fluttered dramatically around Sherlock’s legs as he stalked back into the dining room where John and that annoying Doctor Fuller were.  Sherlock held the cordless phone out where the other two could see it then slammed the defenseless object down on the table hard enough to scuff the wood’s finish.  The noise made both John and Sammy-Jo jump.  “She claimed that she _dreamt_ about this call,” Sherlock said, his voice had an indignant edge to it.  It didn’t sound as though he thoroughly believed in what he was now saying.  “That Tamlyn Matsuda _claimed_ to be a psychic.” 

Sherlock automatically scanned this-- _woman_ \--invading his life.  By now Sammy-Jo was dressed in a soft-looking heathered grey jumper with large cables up the front and a cowl neckline that hung low to give a hint of the woman’s collarbones.  The jumper was paired with a loose-fitting six-gored skirt that flared at the calves and the shoes that Sammy-Jo had worn the first time that she’d met Sherlock.  Beneath the jumper was a cream silk camisole.  As far as Sherlock was concerned, Dr. Fuller’s jumper lacked any of the charm that John’s tended to have;  there weren’t any of the subtle tell-tale signs of wear and tear.  Sherlock mentally reviewed the jumpers John owned, and concluded that he was most fond of John in the oatmeal jumper. 

“She is.  Ms. Matsuda _is_ psychic,” Sammy-Jo, barely managed to conceal her annoyance, tucked that silver strand back out of sight, “now,  just where did you get that little tidbit o’ information?” 

“You really expect me to believe in such an absurd thing as psychics on top of this time-travel nonsense?”  Sherlock snapped.  “Even if it were remotely possible, which it isn’t, what kind of simple minded idiot would be stupid enough to attempt something as moronic as mucking about in the past?  Better yet, what purpose would it serve?  None.  The past is in the past, and nothing can change that.” 

Sherlock’s eyes locked onto the small leather bag he’d noticed the other day.  The small bag was still attached to Dr. Fuller’s laptop case.  “Not that I would expect something with your belief system to listen to sane and rational ideas.  No sane person would contemplate the notion that Dr. Samuel Beckett’s been skipping about through history willy-nilly, changing events as he pleases.” 

The sudden tangential thought process spewed by Sherlock left John more than a little bewildered.  Sammy-Jo apparently took the tirade in stride and sighed when she retrieved her tablet from John. 

\-------------------- 

John’s attention perked when he heard, then saw the Imaging Chamber Door appear several feet from him, and Al step through moments later.  “Right, like _Coat-boy_ over there never pulled a dumbo stunt to prove himself, right?”  The sudden question made John do a double take and then stifle a snicker.  It was just subtle enough to also draw Sherlock’s attention. 

“So, all of this happened because Sam wanted to prove he was right?”  John asked with a quizzical expression bordering on disbelief. 

For a moment it looked like Sammy-Jo was going to answer, till it was evident that John’s attention was focused elsewhere.  Al finally spoke.  “A couple of top-brass desk-jockeys gave Sammy a humdinger of an ultimatum.  Either Quantum Leap produced tangible results, or the funds for the entire project got cut.  Quantum Leap was only 93% complete, but Sammy did what he always does.  He got results.” 

John stared at Al in disbelief.  “When you say...he got results…he...” 

Al glanced down at the handlink he carried.  It wasn’t the brightly lit thing that looked as though it were made of translucent lego bits and pieces.  This one was dark and sleek, there was still that translucent quality to it, but it bore some similarities to a smartphone.  “Bingo.” 

At the table, Sammy-Jo set down the aluminum case that held the device which relayed Al’s voice for both her and Sherlock.  The locks on the sides of the case were popped, and ultimately opened.  “Now, can we get to work?”  Al nodded at Sherlock, his voice now being relayed through the small speakers.  “Or is coat-boy still ranting about time-travel?  ‘Cause, if he keeps it up, something tells me that Sammy-Jo over there might just up and decide to pop him one.” 

“And why exactly,” Sherlock now glared at the aluminum case, for lack of a person to visually target, “would she… ‘pop’ me one?” 

“Because only reason Ah’m alive is because Sam saved my momma’s life.  So, next time ya decide to go harping on about the wrongs of time-travel, keep in mind that my existence is a direct result of Dr. Beckett’s experiment.”  Sammy-Jo glared at the consulting detective, and did look at though she’d been contemplating a quick whap.   

\-------------------- 

Rolling over in the bed, Sam found that he was alone.  Not that it was really all that surprising considering Jim’s personality.  Still, Sam thought to himself, a little cuddling would have been nice.  Then again, avoiding the wet-spot and taking a shower might be the smartest option.


	16. Wait, WHAT happened?

Chapter 16.  
 _ **Wait, WHAT happened?**_

By now the areas that Sam was openly allowed access to had spread from just his living quarters to include several adjoining labs. The internet access was still highly restricted and inevitably lagged because each hyperlink click on unverified websites had to be manually approved, which caused Sam to inevitably disregard the web entirely in lieu of simply handing over a reference book list. The books were, in Sam’s opinion, quicker than dealing with the ‘red-tape’ strangling his web searches. Plus, there was just a more comfortable feeling associated with being able to flip through the pages of a book than clicking through a website. 

Every so often the nurse, Diana, would remind Sam that he needed to eat and possibly rehydrate himself. The reminders were accompanied by Diana pressing more pills on Sam, which he didn’t bother to fight. It was far easier to just down the medication and re-immerse himself in the problem set out before him: Lothos.

It was Sam’s ability to completely and utterly throw himself into a problem like this that Moriarty truly admired. A nice shiny problem was all that was really needed to keep Sam not just placated but productive as well. What Moriarty hadn’t counted on was the nearly constant stream of music that Sam insisted on, and was quite amused any time he walked in while Sam was contentedly singing along to whatever song was playing at that particular moment.

Today’s song apparently was ‘My Boyfriend’s Back’ by The Angels. The cute little choreographed dance that accompanied this song wasn’t unwelcome, the couple of steps that Moriarty saw were definitely part of a larger whole, and harshly reminded the villain that under the right conditions (or depending on one’s point of view, the wrong conditions)… Sam could very easily slip through his fingers to be lost in the past once again. 

It really would be a shame to lose Sam now; especially since the time-worn traveler seemed to be turning into quite the agreeable live-in. The one point of frustration for Moriarty was the inability to see past Molly’s facade. Moriarty didn’t particularly want to be bedding _Molly_ on a nightly basis when _Sam_ was so much more interesting a creature. Even as drugged as Sam currently was, Moriarty mentally debated, how superior his selection of _companion_ was over Sherlock’s more…plebeian association with Dr. Watson. Really, Dr. Watson only had one PHD. Then again, considering Sherlock’s amusing lack of most any degree of interest spoke volumes of the man’s evidently inferior breeding. 

Moriarty leaned against the door-frame and continued to watch Sam working on Lothos’s circuitry. From a logical stand-point, it really was a shame that even though Sam ‘read’ as a woman he really was a man beneath it all… Moriarty wondered when he should inform Sam about the one time Donna Elesee Beckett had finally become pregnant after several fertility treatments and more doctor visits than should be necessary to put a bun in the oven, only to lose the child along with the rest of her reproductive system and nearly her own life. It was a terrible loss, not just to the Becketts, but the scientific community. After all, a child from those particular parents would have been an unprecedented genius. 

A slight tremor in Sam’s arm caught Moriarty’s attention. It was the tell-tale sign of another one of Sam’s panic-attacks attempting to flare up. They were heading into their second week together, and while originally this aspect of Sam’s companionship was amusing, Moriarty was starting to get a little bored at how predictable yet persistent these attacks were becoming.

Moriarty turned and left. The nurse was called in to care for Sam. The last thing that Moriarty felt like doing today was spend a few hours coddling an emotionally raw Sam Beckett. 

\--------------------

Several hours into a video conference call with Tina, Sammy-Jo heard the door open and close as Sherlock and John arrived at Mycroft’s home. Sammy-Jo gave a nod back at the two men when they came into view, then waved John over with an exhausted sigh. “Tina, John,” the introduction was brief, “Tina’s our Pulse Communications Technician.” 

Things were tense back at the Project. The leap that Sam had come off of just a week and a half ago had gone relatively well. Sam had taken the place of a Vietnam War veteran named Henry Adams--and saved the life of a fellow veteran, Roy Brown--along with the life of Mr. Adam’s childhood friend’s son. In the Waiting Room, Henry Adams had naturally been confused, but that was expected of a person suddenly removed from their time and slammed with amnesia to boot. That was then, this was now…and a new leapee arrived overnight. 

The new leapee was… problematic. 

As far as anyone could tell, the leapee in the Waiting Room was male, late twenties-possible early thirties… and terrified out of his mind. There wasn’t anything above that. The man hadn’t been forthcoming on his identity; the usual dental and medical records and fingerprinting were being about as useful as a wooden nickel in 2011; several decades back, a wooden nickel at least got a free Tootsie-Pop from the general store.

“Dr. Martinez-O’Farrell is the technician who programmed my voice.” Ziggy’s statement came from the small speakers on Sammy-Jo’s laptop, and seemed oddly impatient. “Dr. Beckett wanted me to be male. Dr. Elesee wanted me to be female.” Normally the graphic representing the elaborate AI was peaceful blues, this time, however, Ziggy’s interface coloring was threaded through with alarming shades of red and crimson.

“Yeah,” Tina’s voice was somewhat on the nasal and breathy side, and sounded more like she should be a showgirl than a technician on a level one project, “Sammy never could say ‘ _no_ ’ to Donna. They were the perfect couple. Such a shame too, Sammy’s a real sweetie with a cute butt.” Blonde hair, bright eyes and brightly-colored form-fitting clothes coupled with a healthy yet voluptuous body furthered the notion that this woman would be better suited to the chorus line. Unfortunately, beneath the flash and dazzle of the bright clothes and make-up, it was evident that Tina hadn’t slept and the problem at hand was wearing down what apparently was a normally quite vibrant woman. Bags under Sammy-Jo’s eyes indicated that she was faring no better. “But it’s real nice to meet’cha, Johnny!

“Sorry to cut this short, but Sammy-Jo and I gotta get back to figuring out who our new little friend in the Waiting Room is.”

Sherlock scoffed in the background. “Since we see Sam as Molly, then the person you have looks like him. Brilliant. What person’s bright idea was that?” 

“Who’s that?” Tina asked, unable to see Sherlock from the video camera’s vantage point.

“Never mind him. That’s just Sherlock; music degree, nothing else.” Knowing how upset she was making Sherlock, Sammy-Jo attempted to wave Sherlock off. The wave made the consulting detective seethe. “Have the genetic scans come back yet? If we look at the DNA sequencing it should at least start point us in a direction.” 

“Uhm,” John looked more than a little concerned between Sammy-Jo and the woman on the other side of the computer monitor, “what happened?” 

“Quantum Leap has gone into Red Alert. Our Leapee is unresponsive, pretty much catatonic, and has no medical records that we’re aware of. Locating and locking on to Sam is hard enough with all the pertinent data,” Sammy-Jo explained to John, still ignoring Sherlock’s input. “But locating him now? Honestly, it’d be easier climbing to the top o’ Big Ben to spit into a cup on the pavement. Only reason Ah’m not kicking up more of a fuss, is because logically speaking, we’re gonna find Sam, and he’ll be successful; if not, he’ll never leap into Molly in the here and now.”

Sammy-Jo allowed her gaze to ghost across the table where the electronics were set up. Her eyes lingered momentarily on the small leather pouch that Sherlock tended to make biting comments about. The memory of when that pouch was assembled for her rose to the forefront of Sammy-Jo’s mind and she swore under her breath. “Ziggy,” Sammy-Jo barked, “the genetic sample from our friend in the Waiting Room, compare it against the DNA profile we’ve got on file for Sam.”


	17. A Change of Pace.

Chapter 17.  
 _ **A Change of Pace.**_

For the past couple days Sherlock had been uncharacteristically observant and silent around his brother's _guest_ ; the American Scientist, Samantha Josephine Fuller. It was her attitude that annoyed him. For a moment Sherlock pondered whether or not his dislike of her stemmed from Mycroft's apparent and more than professional interest in Dr. Fuller. Still, the novelty of being dragged off to Mycroft's home had worn off long ago.. it had worn off by the second day, in fact. 

To relieve his boredom, Sherlock had taken to surreptitiously moving around small knick-knacks and drawing various forms of mustaches and glasses on the presently available photos. Naturally this annoyed Mycroft to no end, which only ensured to encourage Sherlock further. 

Seated at the makeshift workspace, Sammy-Jo’s eyes were focused on the screen in front of her while she unconsciously played with the small leather bag that was never far from her. If he were so inclined towards some of John’s more fanciful ruminations, Sherlock would claim that he could all but see the wheels churning about in the American scientist’s mind. Today there was something different in the way that Dr. Fuller returned Sherlock’s studious gaze. What frustrated Sherlock the most was that he didn’t know exactly what had changed. 

It was about now that John re-emerged from Mycroft’s kitchen. Seeing that they were in Mycroft’s home so often nowadays, John had taken to stocking a few snacks and biscuits there where it was safe from cross-contamination from Sherlock’s newest round of experiments. 

\-------------------- 

“Sam, my Sam, the one that the project has been monitoring, has finally leapt. As expected, the retrieval program didn’t work,” Sammy-Jo stated once John was seated again in the workspace that she had commandeered in one of the spare offices in Mycroft’s home. At the other end of the room Sherlock snorted, possibly in amusement. “Ziggy, be a dear and bring up your current research.” 

The monitor that Sammy-Jo had nodded at flickered blue momentarily before a map of Britain came into focus on the screen. “As you wish, Dr. Fuller.” The electronic voice from the speakers mounted next to the monitor spoke in a casual yet smug tone. On the display, colors shifted further. Anything that Ziggy considered extraneous data was dropped from view. “There are four locations which fall within search parameters.” The four indicated points were left highlighted on the map, and two of those faded from view. “Records indicate that two of these locations were previously maintained by the British Government. The original use of those locations is listed as classified. 

“The Intelligence computers here, Intelligent computers, what an amusing concept, are unwilling to interface with me. As Admiral Calavicci would oh so colloquially say, and I quote, ‘ _Those morons guard their computer secrets like a little virgin guards...her stamp collection_ ’.” 

Sherlock glared at Sammy-Jo. “Sam leapt? What happened with the bloody red alert that your damned sainted project was under…” 

“It was a simple matter of genetic transference. Apparently Dr. Samuel Beckett has a similar enough genetic make-up to his great-grandfather that allowed him to essentially skip back and switch places with Captain John Beckett of the Union Army back in 1862. It was the unusually large displacement in time that sent the project into a tizzy since Sam isn’t technically supposed to be able to exist outside of his own timeline,” Sammy-Jo snapped back in retaliation. 

“That,” Sherlock sputtered, “that is ludicrous!” 

“Well, Shelly, if you get the chance, just ask Sam how ludicrous it is to be dropped into Mansfield, Virginia in 1862 as a Yankee in the middle of a fire-fight. From what Ah understand, Sam wasn’t too keen on the mustard poultice that was applied to where he’d been shot with a musket. How that man manages to continue sanely existing without a Xanax is completely beyond me.” 

A few moments passed in silence before the dismissive and belittling nickname sunk in. Sherlock sputtered again, this time in indignation. 

“Now,” Sammy-Jo turned her attention back to John and the map being projected by Ziggy, “assuming that since this Moriarty person is holding Sam with the intent of using him to relaunch Lothos and the Lotherman project… To find Sam, all we need ta do is find their imaging chamber. It’s fairly unique, what with a radium accelerator ring surrounding it.” 

\-------------------- 

“John!” The urgency in Al’s voice made John leap back nearly a foot. Having opened the fridge for a late night snack and finding a frantic hologram all but jumping at him also helped in the distance John achieved with his surprised gesture. 

“What in the bloody hell are you doing _in_ the refrigerator?” John hissed through his teeth, in pain. Gingerly, John reached down to rub at his big toe, none too happy over having stubbed it against the table loaded down with yet another experiment of Sherlock’s. Mrs. Hudson and himself had managed to keep the kitchen vaguely presentable for less than a day before the experiments had come out again and taken-over the kitchen, thus making it somewhat less than fit for the preparation of food. 

“Never mind that,” Al looked around, barely taking any interest in his surroundings as he stepped out of the fridge. The hologram’s eyes were more interested in the currently squealing hand unit flashing brightly in his hands. “Kiddo, you gotta make Sammy-Jo stop whatever the heck she’s doing. Pronto.” 

Glaring at Al, John stepped past him and pulled a carton of milk out of the door. “Why, can’t it wait till morning?” Carefully, John sniffed the milk to make sure it hadn’t expired, or that Sherlock hadn’t decided to reuse the carton in an experiment for reasons only understandable to high-functioning sociopaths. “Do you always pop in unannounced to Sam?” 

“If it could wait for morning, do you really think I would have hauled ass to be here in the middle of the night? Now get Sammy-Jo.” 

Al’s wardrobe was given a second glance. For once the other man wasn’t wearing some outrageously bright, noxious or gaudy outfit. There were no odd little flourishes or buttons adorning him, illuminated or otherwise. John blinked. If he wasn’t mistaken, the normally impeccable Admiral Calivici was unshaven and wearing jeans coupled with a well-worn and loved Apollo sweatshirt that had definitely seen better days. Clothes that were thrown on. This had to be an emergency. 

Even though it was relatively safe, John put the milk away without taking a drink. “What’s going on?” Already John was moving to get some respectable clothes on. “Sammy-Jo is at Mycroft’s home. Shouldn’t she be safe?” 

“Ziggy says that Sammy-Jo’s got 67.4% chance of getting herself offed in the next 72 hrs.” In Al’s hand, the brightly lit bit of electronics let out a high pitched squeal that sounded oddly like a bird in distress. Al swore under his breath, and glared at the hand-link, “...make that 71.7% and there’s a 34.2% chance that Sherlock will go missing shortly after.” 

That spurred John into quicker action. 

\-------------------- 

They’d called Mycroft, except the elder Holmes brother hadn’t picked up the phone. No one was bothering to answer the landline either. Worse yet, Sammy-Jo’s mobile was going straight to voicemail. 

In the cab ride to Mycroft’s home, Sherlock annoyed John by badgering Al with questions as to how this could be happening, and liberally using John as a translator. Why were the possibilities of Sammy-Jo’s imminent demise rising and why would it cause _him_ to up and vanish. It wasn’t as though Sammy-Jo meant anything to him. 

The cab sped up. It was quite obvious that the cab driver wanted the apparently insane passengers gone. 

\-------------------- 

The numbers kept climbing. At ninety-three percent Al had centered on Sammy-Jo for a moment, and returned to John when the numbers reached ninety eight. 

“It’s her research, John!” Al barked at John as the cab pulled up into the long winding and overly pompous driveway that Mycroft had insisted on. “Dammit, ninety-nine…” 

The cab rolled to a stop, and John barely waited for the vehicle to come to a complete stop before launching himself from it. At the doorway, Al’s hologram waited impatiently. Then, _IT_ happened. Al wasn’t at the door. John stopped in shock as Al was replaced mid-sentence by Tina. The big difference being, while he’d been seeing Al with crystal clarity, Tina’s hologram was being tuned in like an old rabbit-eared tv with dodgy reception. 

Tina watched as John approached the door, a deep sadness in her eyes as though she were doing her best to hold back tears. “In forty-eight hours, Doctor Fuller and Ms. Hooper’s bodies will wash up in the Thames river near Millbank. All evidence points to suicide.” 

John blinked. “Suicide? Why would they…and where’s Al?” 

Sherlock came up beside John and gave his companion a pointedly curious look, a small and devious smile trapped in the corner of Sherlock’s lips. “Al?” 

“For the love of…” John tried the door, and upon finding it locked, looked around surreptitiously before pulling his gun and shot the lock. He let himself in. Intent on locating Sammy-Jo quickly, John ran down the halls. 

“After hearing about Dr. Fuller’s suicide, Admiral Calavicci suffered a debilitating stroke brought on by stress.” Tina didn’t bother running. Instead, her static afflicted hologram kept re-centering several feet ahead of John and Sherlock. 

“Tina, where is Sammy-Jo _right now_?” John slowed as he came to a corner and debated rushing up the stairs. Breaking and entering in Mycroft’s home was a definite way to get attention. With luck, this might help ensure protection for Sammy-Jo, but that was only if they were lucky. Taking into consideration the fact that Moriarty has had absolutely no problems with strapping C4 to completely innocent people that had nothing to do with the situation at all, nothing was assured as far as safety was concerned. 

Tina blinked out for a few seconds before returning to John’s side. “Upstairs, left down the hall, third door on the right.” Her lip trembled and she disappeared again. John guessed that Tina was re-centering on Sammy-Jo. From upstairs Tina’s voice rang out clearly as she called to John. “In here!” 

Moving as fast as he could, John raced towards Tina’s voice. He threw his full weight against the closed door, knocking it clear off its hinges…and heard Sammy-Jo scream when he crashed through the door without warning. 

By Sammy-Jo’s computer, Tina stood transfixed, her hands with an overdue manicure clasped over her mouth. A video was playing on the laptop, the sound pouring out of the tinny speakers. Tina’s expression was unreadable. “Johnny, the laptop. Close it.” There was a strange expression on Tina’s face. “Please.” 

Sherlock stepped into the room, completely nonplussed that Sammy-Jo was in not much more than a robe. 

\-------------------- 

In the kitchen Mycroft glared none-too happily at his younger brother and said brother’s companion. It had taken a few well placed words to make the police leave, though everyone knew that the report for this breaking and entering would definitely find its way to Lestrade’s desk…but it wouldn’t make it any further than that. With how much Sherlock was despised by agents Anderson and Donovan, those two would relish in any perceived wrongdoings of the younger Holmes. Then again, the vast majority of the police force would be more than a little pleased for Sherlock to fall from ‘grace’. Still, Mycroft glared. “I suppose there is a reason for you both to come barging in uninvited to my home at this ungodly hour?” 

“Well,” John stammered, and glanced over somewhat uncertainly at Tina. His eyes then turned down to Sammy-Jo’s laptop that he’d brought down with him. “Yes. According to Tina, Sammy-Jo and Molly are going to die.” John huffed, his lips pressed tight into a thin line. “Which is really quite odd, since before tonight, no one had said a bloody thing about either of them dying… _AND_ the person I’d been speaking with from this damned project was Al, _NOT_ Tina. 

“No offense, Tina, you seem like a lovely person, but I really don’t understand why the sudden change...and why am I starting to have problems remembering Al?” 

Tina started speaking, but was soon drowned out by Sherlock, the two of them speaking over each other. The gist was the same. According to them, the neurological hologram contacting John had always been Tina; never Al. Tina had taken over hologram duties after Al’s stroke a year prior. It was frustrating. 

From the other side of the kitchen door, Sammy-Jo asked if she could come in yet, which was immediately nixed by Tina. The chances of Sammy-Jo and Molly dying had gone down to 98%. As far as most of the present company was concerned, that was still 98% too high. 

\-------------------- 

Even though Sam knew the smartest course of action would be to run a strong magnet repeatedly over the hard drives that carried all of Lothos’s data…Sam just had to believe that the modifications he’d done to Lothos’s personality matrixes were successful. Now it was a waiting game to see how the new personality turned out. Not that Sam was going to connect Lothos up to the rest of the project’s systems, or allow the new fledgling personality have access to previous data. Last thing that Sam wanted to do was allow any possibility of Lothos being as deadly as it…he? she? 

Sam sat back on his heels, soldering iron in one hand, circuit board in another, and a wireless keyboard within arm’s reach. It was a good question. Ziggy identified as female. Lothos originally, from what Sam understood, identified as male. With the new modifications, how would Lothos identify? Was Lothos even Lothos anymore? 

Quickly Sam reached into the metal casing that housed Lothos and disconnected the main drives, again. This wasn’t the first time to disconnect everything. Actually, it wouldn't be the last. The drives were scooped up, and attached to a smaller, stand-alone terminal. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam noticed Jim watching him with amused interest. “Not one word.” 

\-------------------- 

What John didn’t understand was why the video on Sammy-Jo’s computer would contribute to the woman’s death. He sat there at the kitchen island, with a still somewhat annoyed Mycroft Holmes all but sneering over one shoulder, and Tina watching over the other. Sammy-Jo and Sherlock had been ordered from the room. Neither had been happy at being ordered out. 

The video was grainy, and the transfer was poorly done with several scratches in the film. John figured it was old, but he didn’t know how old exactly. At best, what John _could_ figure out was that he was watching was a lecture from a scientific conference of some sort. Over his shoulder, John could feel Mycroft’s expression sour. On his left, John could hear the change in Tina’s breathing. On the screen, a young man that appeared to have only just passed his first flush of manhood, sporting brown hair with the barest hint of silver peeking out of the left hand side from under his fringe, was leading this particular lecture. The clothes style was dated. When the man on the screen spoke, his tone was warm and personable that felt oddly familiar in some way. 

The video transfer had cut the first few seconds of the lecture, but John was still treated to the end of the speaker’s introduction before the lecture launched full force into the finer points of quantum theory…with amusing farmyard analogies to clarify the more difficult topics. 

“Now, would someone mind telling me what exactly I am looking at here and why?” Annoyance was quite audible in John’s voice. “Tina?” 

“That’s Sam.” Leaning over John’s shoulder, Tina’s brows knit in concentration as she studied the video. “It looks like, maybe...from before Sammy joined Project Starbright.” 

On the screen, the lecture paused as a relatively young woman attempted to sneak into the lecture hall; trailing close behind the woman was a small boy, probably six or seven years of age. John didn’t notice Mycroft’s expression hardening as in the video a young Sam Beckett took the time to stop the lecture to make sure the woman and child made it to their seats. Even with the rough transfer, Sam’s flustered blush was evident when he spoke with this woman. A gentle smile in place, going down on one knee to bring him down to the child’s level, Sam also spoke with the boy. 

Tina straightened back up and starting punching figures into her hand-link. Amusingly enough, John noted, she was about as delicate about this as Al had been punching and almost violently jabbing the poor abused device. “But,” Tina mused, “this lecture is from the late seventies, early eighties at most…and looks like he was in...” her voice trailed off as something evidently interesting popped up on her screen, Tina’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh!” 

Another violent jab at the handlink and Tina disappeared. It wasn’t the usual exit through the Imaging Chamber door, so John figured that she still had to be around somewhere. His speculation was soon confirmed when she reappeared within moments. “Have Mickey here delete that video file and all traces of it. Never mention this again, and let Sammy-Jo know that she can start her research again after she’s back at Quantum Leap where she’ll be safe.” 

Getting to his feet, John took a step closer to Tina. He still wasn’t at all sure what was happening in regards to the video. “Why? I don’t understand...” 

Tina’s head cocked to the side prettily. “It’s better if you don’t understand.” Tina shook her head sadly. “Don’t talk about that video to _anyone_. Ziggy says that the information inferred from it…” With a deep sigh, the woman looked back up at John. “...Will make Sam and Sammy-Jo will react emotionally, not rationally. Which is what’ll get them killed. 

“Now get Dr. Minsk’s audio projector in here. I need a word with Mycroft in private.”


End file.
